


The Ex—An Ex Files Special

by 7PercentSolution



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Behind the scenes Moriarty, Blackmail, Case Fic, Consensual Sex, Don't copy to another site, Extortion, Friends to Lovers, Heartbreak, Jealous John Watson, London clubbing scene, M/M, Mind Palace meltdown, Pining, Pre-Reichenbach, Protective Mycroft, Reunion Sex, Romance, Sherlock's Past, Solving a murder before it happens, Tragedy, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unrequited Love, Viclock, annoyed wankage, how to piss off John in ten easy lessons, missing weekend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2019-12-07 20:01:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 108,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18239561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7PercentSolution/pseuds/7PercentSolution
Summary: Thirteen years ago, Sherlock was extricated from his relationship with Victor Trevor.  What happens when they meet again? How will John deal with it?





	1. Backup

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Extricate—An Ex Files Special](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14504154) by [7PercentSolution](https://archiveofourown.org/users/7PercentSolution/pseuds/7PercentSolution). 



> This is the sequel to an earlier story called "Extricate—An Ex Files Special", which follows ACD canon rather than the broadcast version, how Victor Trevor and Sherlock Holmes were friends at Cambridge University. My take on the Gloria Scott saw the two university students become lovers, and then what drove them apart, with devastating consequences for both of them. That said, "The Ex" can be read as a stand-alone story in its own right, so don't feel that you have to have read Extricate first before this one.

John's phone vibrates in his pocket just as he is about to board a Southern Rail train at Balham. Looking down at his phone, he sighs.

**17.23  Meet me at Corbetts Wharf, 87 Bermondsey Wall East   SH**

It's been a hellish day at the surgery and all he really wants to do is to head back to Baker Street for a take-away curry, a couple of bottles of beer and some crap telly. Locum work during an outbreak of winter vomiting virus is never easy, and he is knackered. Rubbing the back of his neck, he wonders if he might be in need an early night.

On the other hand…

This text probably means a new case is on, and they've become rare as hen's teeth these days. The drought of work caused by Mycroft’s interference* has taken a toll on both of them.  Sherlock doesn't appear quite ready to start shooting at the wall, but he’s been on edge, in a peculiar mood.

_Sometimes I don't talk for days._

This time, those days have stretched to weeks and John is almost missing the manic monologues. Part of the reason is obvious. Moriarty is on remand at Her Majesty's Prison Belmarsh in southeast London, but the trial won't start for another seven weeks; everyone seems to be holding their breath. Sherlock won't talk about it, even though the Crown Prosecution Service has decided to call him in as an "expert witness." But, they won't start briefing him for the task for another couple of weeks. Until then, he's sat at home, working on a laptop on something that he won't discuss with John. He's even stopped playing his violin, claiming that he isn't in the mood. Since John knows that the violin is the ultimate barometer of Sherlock's emotional status, this musical abstinence is worrying.

In desperation, John has started taking more locum work, just to get out of the flat and the deafening silence.

As the train rumbles off leaving him standing on the platform, he realises that this line is going to take him in entirely the wrong direction; he needs to get to the Underground station at Tooting Bec, take the Northern Line to London Bridge, and then switch to the Jubilee line for one stop to Bermondsey.

He texts back:

**17.25  I'll be there in 30-40 mins, TfL willing.**

oOoOoOoo

In the end, it takes him longer than that—too much longer. It's as if London Transport is conspiring to test the limits of his patience: signal failure at Elephant & Castle adds on time, and he starts getting twitchy at the delay stuck in the tunnel. Who knows what Sherlock might be getting up to in the meantime? John wonders if this case might be something where he needs to be there providing back-up. In his current mood, Sherlock is not going to wait, and his sense of self-preservation will be overrun by his desperation to end this stagnation. Ever since Moriarty had been arrested, his mood has been so odd.  When he tries to say that at least the villain is locked up, Sherlock just snaps that it's all a charade and that he is even more dangerous inside than out of jail. Remembering that, John becomes acutely aware of the fact that his gun is back at Baker Street.

When he finally gets to London Bridge, the station is heaving with rush hour commuters, making him duck and dive at speed through the crowds to get onto the Jubilee Line eastbound platform. It's Sardine City, with everyone keen on getting home cramming onto the Tube carriage. He ends up with his nose squashed against someone's armpit and tries to think of anything other than what his nose is telling him.

He worms his way out at the next stop and takes a deep breath, happy to drag into his oxygen-starved lungs something other than B.O. Looking around, he realises he's never been to this stop. All of the Jubilee Line stations going east seem to have the same grey, post-industrial décor of metal and concrete, lit by harsh overhead fluorescent bulbs, like something out of a sci-fi film. _No wonder Sherlock dislikes it._

To make matters worse, this is a part of London John doesn't know, so he gets lost. Not for the first time, he wishes he had Sherlock's photographic mind map of the city because he manages to get turned the wrong way coming out of the Underground station, quick marching along Jamaica Road for almost ten minutes before he realises he's walking west instead of east, and has to re-trace his steps before heading down West Lane towards the river.  

He stops under a street lamp to text again:

**18.38 Transport delays. Not far now.**

On second thought, he stops just long enough to type one more text before speeding up:

 **18.39** **Don't do anything daft without me**

The lack of reply ratchets up his anxiety another level. When he finally finds the right Victorian red brick warehouse by the Thames, it's been almost eighty minutes since Sherlock had called, and it's hardly surprising that there is no sign of the man. The tiny one-way street of Bermondsey Wall is empty of cars; double yellow lines on both sides.  

If this is a crime scene, it hasn't attracted the attention of the police yet, which is worrying.

**18.44  I'm here. Where are you?**

Waiting for a reply, he tries to walk around the building, trying to decide how best to do this. If he blunders in, will he disrupt Sherlock's possibly very covert plan and muck things up? He can't get around the place, because the northern side of the building is directly on the embankment above the Thames. The warehouse has clearly been redeveloped, but it's not been turned into up-market flats the way that so much else in the area has been gentrified. The ground floor is a strange combination of new and old: a modern grey metal façade behind a series of cast iron columns, painted red. The few windows in the upper stories which face the street are dark.

Uncertain of what to do, concern overtakes caution, so he decides on a full-frontal assault, marching up to the front door. There is a single intercom buzzer, which he prods as he notices a small brass name plate:

**_CHILL_ **

After a brief pause, a woman's voice emerges from the intercom. "We're not open yet for today, and never to non-members, so you'd best turn around and leave."

He decides honesty is the best course of action. "I'm here to see Sherlock Holmes. He told me to meet him here."

The answer is the buzz of an electronic lock being released, so he pushes open the door and walks in. And then stops, as he takes in an unexpected sensation.

_It's fucking freezing in here._

The walls of a narrow corridor are white. He reaches out a finger and realises that the wall is a solid sheet of ice. The floor is white marble, and the whole place is lit by a strange, ambient light that seems to come from nowhere. As his eyes focus on the far wall at the end of the corridor, he picks out a white metal door, framed by two columns of ice. 

The door opens and an attractive young woman pokes her head through. She's dressed in white; even her hair is a bleached blonde that is almost ivory in shade. "This way."

John marches the length of the corridor in her wake, wishing he'd worn a thicker jacket. 

"Welcome to Chill, Doctor Watson. Mister Holmes got here a while ago, and is waiting in reception. The manager is due here any moment. Follow me." She leads him into a dark room, in which the only light is illuminating an entire wall of upside down bottles above a gleaming black bar. Everything else in the room is black, too. After the white corridor, the change is shocking to the senses, but at least it is warmer here.

John is relieved to see Sherlock standing in the far corner, looking through what seems to be a dark window. The Belstaff and his dark hair are almost perfect camouflage in the darkness, and the paleness of his skin is even more remarkable in the dim lighting.

"Took you long enough." Sherlock doesn't turn around, and his voice has the strangely taut, almost angry tone that has become the norm these days.

John shrugs. "London Transport, what can I say?" His eyes are adjusting to the gloom, taking in the room and realising that it is screaming money at him. The upholstery of the sofas looks to be soft leather, and he brushes his hand against a chair arm to confirm it. "Alright?" he asks quietly, mostly just to diffuse the tension.

There is no answer.

A bit more impatiently, he tries again. "Sherlock, what's up?"

"Good question. I've wasted more than enough time waiting to see if it's worth bothering with this case. We should know when the manager _finally_ gets here."

As if someone has heard him, the door behind John opens and another woman walks through. This one is older, more his age. Attractive, petite and dressed in black leather from head to toe. Her black hair and make-up complete the goth look, but it is all tastefully done. She's not really his type, but John feels the magnetic attraction of a woman who is confident in her sexuality and not afraid of projecting it.

She's carrying a tablet and a black folder and wearing what looks to be a blue tooth headset slung around her neck. She glances ever so briefly at him before fixing her gaze firmly on Sherlock. "Mister Holmes. I am grateful that you have come. I'm Tiffany Selvedge. Bryony spoke to you about our situation?"

"Briefly. Perhaps you could summarise for the benefit of Doctor Watson, my colleague. I value his opinion as to whether yours is a case worth my time."

While John digests what he realises is a sort of compliment, the woman gestures to a pair of leather sofas. "Let's sit, please. Can I get you something to drink?"

Sherlock answers for both of them: "No. We don't have time to waste. Just answers, please."

John can detect the signs of impatience barely held in check; Sherlock is wound up tighter than a drum. It's only a matter of time before the full force of his tongue is unleashed.  

"Welcome to Chill." Her voice is low, with a hint of a foreign accent that John can't place. "You won't have heard of it before today—a novel night club concept for London.  Only open to members, and new members can only apply if nominated by an existing one and approved by the membership committee."

Sherlock snorts dismissively. "That's hardly new. Private clubs have existed since the dawn of Rome." He starts to get up, as if he's already decided against taking the case based on a lacklustre pitch.

"Wait. This is something different. I will show you."

"Before you waste time doing that, tell me more about the threat."

She looks a bit startled at his bluntness, but then nods. "Bryony Stemple said you were rude to her, but that it would be worth it if you'll take the case. _Tell him enough to convince him he won't be bored,_ she said.  She also said she knew you, and that you might take this on for old time's sake. I suppose the fact that you are here at all is a testament to that. Bryony's an investor in the club—well, her syndicate is. She runs a hedge fund specialising in what she likes to call London's floating world. The night economy has become highly profitable, the returns to her investors stellar. If it weren't for her, we'd never have had the nerve to do this."

Now, Tiffany has shifted her attention away from Sherlock, onto John. Once again, he feels that sexual appraisal going on. Devouring him with her eyes, she says: "Chill launched six months ago, and we are already in operational profit because this is a new business model. Turns out that there are plenty of people with money who think that the London club scene has gone too far downhill as it caters to teenagers and tourists that they are willing to pay for exclusivity and privacy. This is not a volume business. We get the best DJs, top-line musicians who are tired of the stadium theatrics that put miles between them and an audience. Last week, Lady Gaga stopped in on her European tour. At Chill, artists like her get a small, highly knowledgeable audience in an intimate upscale venue with all the tech toys they want. And a sizable payment."

"Spare me the sales pitch." Sherlock is actually drumming his fingers on the arm of the sofa.

"All this will become relevant _,"_ she snaps, turning her gaze back to him. "We're elite, highly expensive; members pay an annual subscription, but still have to book to come in on any particular night. We curate the guest list to make sure that people who come will find like-minded members in attendance, and an even enough gender and _preference_ balance. No marketing, only word-of-mouth. We keep out the undesirables, no matter how much money they've got. No oligarchs or drunk Arabs. Just the most interesting people in London."

Tiffany is smiling, as if that would matter to Sherlock. "It's been wildly profitable. And that, unfortunately, has attracted unwanted attention." She opens the folder and slips a sheet of paper across the smoked glass coffee table between the couches.

Sherlock snorts at it, and even John has to smile. Words and single letters cut out of magazines have been glued to the paper to form the message:

_Taxing times! Pay up 10% or your customers will start getting sick. Take an ad on Loot.com, headlined CHILL OUT with photo of ice sculpture and details of how to pay will be sent._

Tiffany shrugs. "Yeah; we thought that, too: kind of lame and old-fashioned; just some amateur trying it on. So, we ignored it."

John sits up. "And what happened?"

"Some of our members cancelled their bookings.  A few one night, then a few more, and then a few more. I called them up to find out why, and they'd all come down with this winter vomiting thing."

John snorts. "Could be coincidence. It's going around. The surgery was full of it."

"You are a real doctor, then?"

He nods. "Yes." Why do people seem to doubt his medical credentials when he works with Sherlock? Can't there be two intelligent, educated people in such a team? Do they really think he's just some PhD academic? Or faking it completely?

Tiffany sits back, as if putting some distance between her and him. "Highly infectious. I know. So, I told myself what you've just said. That was three weeks ago. But, this was put through the letter box at the start of last week." She slides another sheet across the table.

_Tax hike! Now 15%. Pay up or members get hurt._

There is a derisory hand wave from the other end of the sofa from John. "Standard tactics; any evidence of the threat being carried through?"  

Sherlock's body language is telling John that he is making up his mind against taking the case.

Tiffany pulls out three newspaper clippings: two from the Evening Standard, the other from Metro. The headlines make grim reading:

_Canary Wharf Couple Mugged in Canada Water_

_Carjacking in Shad Thames Puts Passenger in Hospital_

_Blackwall Basin Houseboat Owner Narrowly Escapes Drowning_

"All of the victims are our members. Coincidence? Starting to look less and less likely. But, I don't like blackmailers."

John asks the obvious question. "Did you report this to the police?"

"No. What could they do? Besides, they must be already investigating the individual incidents. And, we can't afford bad PR at this point, which is why a private investigator is a perfect solution for us. But, what arrived yesterday did change our stance on involving the police."

Another sheet is positioned next to the other two.

_A member will be murdered at Chill unless you pay up._

"I contacted the police as soon as this arrived. The officer who came around said this sort of thing has been appearing all over London in the last two months, targeting clubs but nothing had been proven to have actually happened. The police have classed it as either a neighbourhood activist thing—not everyone likes a night-time venue— or, at worst, a scam, a protection racket."

She shakes her head. "He said that until a crime is actually committed that they could link to these weird blackmail notes, there isn't much the police can do, except take copies of these and add them to the pile. The line they are taking is, don't pay up. I asked whether they could try to trace it thought the Loot.com electronic records if we decided to pay, or if they could organise some sort of a setup. His answer didn't exactly fill me with confidence, I have to say."

"They have better things to do than deal with crackpots; so do we." Sherlock is retying his scarf as if preparing to leave.

"Time's running out, Mister Holmes; we've got two days before Friday. On the one hand, I don't know how a blackmailer is going to get in here to commit murder. On the other hand, if someone is killed on the premises, then that will also kill the business, for sure. Our clientele is very security-conscious; anything that threatens their safety would be toxic. When I explained this to Bryony, and said I couldn't see a way to avoid paying, she suggested you."  

Tiffany leans back on the sofa. "I know your reputation—the tabloids are full of the great _Consulting Detective_. Maybe that reputation is based on not being willing to take on cases that are hard. Can you solve a murder before it happens? Can you do it on an impossible timetable? Are you willing to help someone who once helped you?" The challenge in her tone of voice is clear, making John wonder who this Bryony person is and what her history with Sherlock is*.  _What did she help him with, and why does it seem like they've fallen out since?_

Sherlock picks up the last of the blackmail letters and scrutinises it very closely, sniffing at the paper.  A moment later, he replies, "Yes, of course, I'll take the case. Not boring at all." He puts the sheet down. "Now, you can take us on that tour. I need to know _everything_ about this place. It looks utterly fascinating."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Mycroft's interference in case work is due to him finding out about the Sigurson Plan, Sherlock's approach to taking the Moriarty network apart. Mycroft's rift with Sherlock about it is covered in The Fallen Angel series of stories.  
> *Bryony Stemple plays a matchmaker role in Extricate, helping Victor and Sherlock face up to their mutual attraction. It isn't important in the context of this story, because John never does find out who she is.


	2. Distraction

Sherlock is still reeling from the aroma of the adhesive that the blackmailer used; memories of his solvent abuse as a child had resurfaced at the first sniff. Strange how memory is triggered by scent, and his sensory acuity gives him the first vital clue. It tells him this case could fit into his plans, after all. He'd not been keen on the idea originally, despite Bryony's pleas. There is simply too much at stake at the moment, and he'd thought he could not afford to be distracted. He has needed these seven weeks while Moriarty is on remand—every minute is valuable time to establish the credibility of Lars Sigurson in the criminal mastermind's network.  The whole network has been agog of the audacity of the three crimes; Tower Bridge, The Bank of England and Pentonville Prison had put him behind bars for an as yet not understood motive. As Lars, Sherlock has been privy to some of the worrying of the network and Fallen Angels about this latest move. Although Moriarty has been able to bribe enough guards to keep some communication lines open, the prisoner doesn't have access to a computer or the internet, and Sherlock is playing on that fact to strengthen his own ties with the rest of the network. _While the cat's away…_

That said, he's watched John getting more and more frustrated at the lack of cases. The man seems tightly wound, almost angry. Perhaps the aftershocks of Dartmoor are still making him more cautious about gifting Sherlock with unconditional loyalty.

 _Good._ That's all part of the plan. He needs John to put some emotional distance between them, make him less of a target when Moriarty gets out. Haunted by the image of John strapped into that Semtex vest, Sherlock knows that his friend will be at risk as soon as the trial is over.  His survival depends on them being seen to be at odds with one another. He just wishes that it wasn't so painful.

He's grown accustomed to John's steadying influence. It's an addiction that he has to break if his plan to take Moriarty down is to work; he has to push John away, for his own safety.   

One sniff of the glue had made Sherlock realise that this case could help in that process.  

Tiffany returns from the bar and hands them two wristbands. "Wear these. Everyone who works here or is a member has one, and all the doors are code-activated. The bands are security protected by fingerprint recognition. If the band is taken off…" She demonstrates by removing hers; "…the circuit is broken and has to be re-initialised with the registered fingerprint. It makes it really hard for people to pass the bands onto someone who is not a member. It also means that we have a log of everyone's movements at the venue, so if someone does try to commit murder here, there's going to be a paper trail."

She holds out the tablet to Sherlock and says, "Thumbprint here, please," then raises the tablet and takes a photo of his face before turning to John to repeat the process. "It's needed for members to be checked at the entrance. We confirm that the fingerprint on the wrist band and photo ID match when the members are in the ice tunnel."

"I noticed security cameras there and in the reception room," Sherlock says. As he is watching John's face at the time he speaks, he can see that the doctor had missed both of these.  He also sees that John is tired, and not feeling well. Another reason to pursue the case—a grumpy John will be easier to provoke.

She nods. "The security system checks the wrist band IDs with the photos we have on file. Advanced facial recognition; if there is a mismatch, we know it and they get stopped."

John seems perplexed. "Why? Seems a bit OTT."

She raises a dismissive eyebrow. "We use the latest technology that any decent financial services company does these days, and the members know it is there for their protection. Unlike employers, who use such technology to strip employees of their privacy, what happens here stays here."

The bands are snapped onto their right wrists, and she shows them how to place their finger on the small Chill logo which reads the print. She then checks her tablet and nods. "We're good to go."

She leads the way to a door sunk into the far wall, and waves her wrist as the door frame. It opens automatically, and starts to close immediately until Sherlock follows suit and then John.

"Impressive; reduces the risk of tailgating," Sherlock says.

"It's better than that. The sensors will have picked up three bodies going through. If less than three IDs are presented, it sets off a security alarm. Cameras are not visible to the naked eye, but I can assure you they are there."

Sherlock nods again.

"He can hear them." John smirks. That makes Tiffany look back at him, surprised, so he explains. "High frequencies; most people can't hear them, but he can." There's a tinge of pride in his voice and he nods towards Sherlock to emphasise his words.

It grates on Sherlock's nerves that John is sharing such information about his sensory processing sensitivities, but he stifles his annoyance.

They've entered a black corridor. The floor is black marble, the walls are lined with black leather, and the ceiling is mirrored. Lighting is recessed at floor level and there's just enough of it to see one's way. The effect is extraordinarily glamorous for such a simple design, and it makes Sherlock wonder about the creative mind behind it.

Halfway down at a double set of doors, a frame illuminates as they approach, but Tiffany stops before it. "A bit of history first before we go in. Corbetts Wharf is a category II listed building that was built in the 1860s, just one of the Surrey side commercial warehousing. It was built for Foster company which specialised in flowers, seeds and then later exotic plants and bulbs. In the early twentieth century they built refrigerated storage to keep the stuff in top condition, and to diversify into providing ice for London. We've built on that theme to make Chill into something rather special as a venue. Basic layout: this is the main corridor." She points at the far end. "Loos are that way. These doors open onto the dance floor."

John is looking around. "No expense spared? Seems sort of glam for a warehouse."

Tiffany sniffs. "The problem with a lot of club venues in London is that the owners cannibalise grotty industrial buildings and don't invest in comfort _or_ visual pleasure. Dancing, seeing the best DJs, getting up close and personal with great performers? It's all a thing of the past as the club scene has gone down-market. Cattle pens instead of a proper club. Until we came along."

She stops the sales patter and looks long and hard at Sherlock. "Bryony says you knew the club scene back in 2000, so you'll be familiar with _underneath-the-arches_ themes of places like Heaven."

Tiffany smirks as she turns to look at John, so Sherlock answers before she can open her mouth: "He isn't; not the type."

John gives him a slightly offended look, but Sherlock decides against taking the opportunity to increase his irritation. No need to go over the top; this campaign needs to be a smouldering deterioration, not a flaming inferno.

Tiffany swipes her wrist and the doors open for them.

As they walk into the back of a room, Sherlock hides a smirk as John looks up in astonishment: the ceiling is four floors above them. But, rather than a brick cavern, the walls are black with a strange translucent character. In contrast, the floor is white. Within the first few steps, Sherlock knows that it is a sprung floor made of modern composite materials—and would be sheer bliss for dancing. Looking at the stage at the far end, he also realises that the floor gently slopes, so that even the people in the back will still have a good view of the stage. It has the feel of an opera house or a grand cinema; there are even twin balconies suspended over the sides of the room.

Again, someone has really given this a lot of thought, leading him to comment: "Impressive. Small by London standards, but perfectly formed."

Tiffany smiles. "Better be, at the price we charge. It costs a thousand pounds a year for bronze membership; that entitles a member to one admission a month. Silver is fifteen hundred for three times; gold is three grand and unlimited entry. That said, you have to reserve, and once we reach the quota of four hundred, no further entry for that night. We currently have eight hundred Gold members on the books, seven hundred and twelve silver, and one thousand sixteen bronze members. Because only four hundred can be here on any one night, when bookings open one month in advance, they're snapped up in a matter of minutes. Our clients like the competitive angle to it. There is a standby option for the fifty unbooked slots. As soon as one party leaves, another can come in, so we always have a queue."

Sherlock quirks a lip. "You've turned a licensing limitation for a venue this small into a major selling point."

She laughs. "Bryony said you were smart. I suppose you will also have worked out that putting Chill in the middle of a residential area means the walls are totally sound-proofed. We can have amps producing volumes without a whisper being heard outside. It's the perfect club experience. Temperature-controlled to make sure that as the room heats up, no one is going to feel hot and bothered by it."

Maths has never been John's strongest suit, but he has now managed some basic calculations, and says with some astonishment, "That's over three and half million pounds in membership fees."

"It's only the beginning, I assure you. Paid upfront, it ensures we have the cash flow we need to run catering and services to a five-star level, which is where we make most of the money."

She points to the two curved bars that are on opposite sides of the ground floor. There are staff there working to set up for the evening.

Sherlock watches John taking in the uniformed workers. All of the employees are wearing the slimline headsets. Clearly, the club is using high tech to keep everyone in touch. The male employees are attired in black, form-fitting jumpsuits with a hint of fine tailoring. The suit lapels suggest a dinner jacket, but worn without a shirt, they allow a peek at chest muscles. The young women look the epitome of understated glamour: their white jumpsuits show a cleavage and good figure, without descending into a trashy look.  

The dilation of John's pupils is not due to the low light in the room; Sherlock knows that it has been eighty-three days since John even attempted to date. Louise Mortimer, Henry Knight's therapist, was the last woman he'd tried to seduce. Sherlock had broached the subject after Moriarty's arrest, only to be told tersely: "Given what happened to Sarah and then Louise, I think me dating anyone should come with a health warning." The dry spell in his sexual habits must be adding to John's irritability.    

Tiffany points to the wall behind the bar. "We use a Coravin system to dispense cocktails and wine. All pre-mixed with the highest quality ingredients, designed so members don't have to keep waiting at the bar when they really want to be dancing, or waiting for their drinks to be delivered to their table. Payment is quick, too, all contactless made through the wrist band. If members want a tailor-made cocktail, they can have anything they want, but it will take a bit longer. We cater for all tastes."

"On an average six-hour weekday night, each of the four bars will take in about fifty thousand; Friday nights and weekends we get high-rollers wanting Dom Perignon or Crystal, so it goes up to seventy-five thousand.  Food is canapes and small plates curated by Michelin-star guest chefs; we rotate them monthly; top ingredients and presentation, served in the Black Room where we met, and another matching one, the White Room. Those clear about the same amount. So, tonight we should have an income from catering of about a quarter of a million. And, that doesn't count in the premium services."

John's eyes are so wide that Sherlock wishes he could see it. "But, that's like… astronomical. Nearly two million pounds a week!"

Tiffany shrugs. "Before expenses."

"How the other half lives, John." Sherlock keeps his eyes on the waiting staff. "How many employees on duty when the doors are open?"

"Down here on the main floor, ten per side. Six on bars, four on tables, two waiting on the iceboxes. The Black and White Rooms have seven each. Then there are the kitchen staff and the tech guys, plus security. All in, fifty-six; that's a ratio of one to every eight guests."

"Iceboxes?"

"Let me show you."

She walks them to the area under the balconies and behind the bars. There are tables surrounded by cosy modular seating.

"Everything is computer-controlled. Each of the tables has a pay-link", Tiffany explains. Against the wall, closer to the stage end there are small rooms with frosted class sides and doors; five cubes that are about three meters on all sides. They are glowing with light from within, but Sherlock can't see into them.

"You want privacy? You can buy it in an ice box for a hundred pounds for twenty minutes. There is a monitor inside with a live video link to what's going on the stage, but what goes on in the rooms is mostly sex, to be honest."

John's watching the particularly attractive rear end of a jump-suited waitress as she opens one of the ice box doors with a swipe of her wrist and enters carrying a box. He mutters, "That's another twenty thousand of income per night."

"Price doubles on Fridays and Saturdays. They're always booked in advance, and rarely empty."

Sherlock is thinking through the ramifications of movement being tracked everywhere in the club. "So, you know who goes in?"

"Yes; the door won't open unless the right wrist band is presented. You begin to see why I wonder how a murderer thinks they're going to get in here undetected. "

"The answer is obvious; your suspect is going to be a member or staff, as is his or her target."

"Members and staff how the system works, so why would they even try?"

"If it can be gamed, it provides the perfect alibi."

Before Tiffany can react to his assertion, there is a beep from the headset around her neck, and she raises a hand. "Sorry; I need to take this." Slipping the earpiece in and lifting the microphone into place, she says, "Yes?

"Oh. Yes, of course.  We should be done in ten minutes. I'm taking them up to the Pods now."

As she slips the headset off, Tiffany says "That was the projection room; DJ is due in twenty minutes and wants to do a dry run on tonight's set, to make sure the video walls are in synch.

She points Sherlock and John to a door giving access to a set of glassed stairs against the back wall. "We're heading up to the way this place _really_   makes its money."

She waves her wrist and then opens the door. "Two balconies; this one is booked to corporate members costing the companies fifty thousand per annum for once a month sessions. Then, a thousand pounds per guest who is not otherwise on our books, each time. There's a waiting list of twenty two companies, so we'll hike the fee next year."

Sherlock knows that John will be bewildered by the sums involved. True to form, the doctor is looking confused. "Why would a company pay that kind of money for something like this?"

Tiffany laughs. "You don't know much about corporate hospitality, do you? It's cheap at the price compared to debenture seats at sports events, and a damned sight more interesting for the younger generation. For the companies, it's also a safe place to play for their staff, even when they aren't entertaining clients. A lot of companies think of it as a chance to reward employees with something that a bonus can't buy. It's become the hottest ticket in town for someone chatting up a new client. And, a rumour that a certain company has bagged a balcony here will be worth every penny in PR value."

As they come out from the stairs onto the balcony, Sherlock takes in the sight. A private bar, tables, even a small dance floor.  There are two iceboxes, the frosted glass offering even more intimate privacy. The designer has positioned the balcony so that occupants will have the best view in the house of the stage.

She explains: "The pods have their own dedicated staff; nothing but the best service."

Sherlock is beginning to get the lay of the landscape but has questions. "There are two balconies. What happens to the other one?" 

"We run invitation-only celebrity parties; it's a fact that people who perform at club venues like to enjoy themselves, but can't because of the crowds. So, if they're in town, we invite them in. Entourage is limited to five people, and they get to pick up to ten more from our members if they want. You'd be surprised how many music label CEOs and producers are members just for that opportunity. Some great deals have been done here."

She frowns. "By now, you should be getting the picture. These are important people who want to play and relax, privately. No paparazzi, no gossip columnists, no tourists or the Great British Public taking their phones out to demand selfies. In fact, phones in here won't get a signal. We have a code of behaviour; anyone breaking the rules is expelled automatically. What happens in here stays in here. The name says it all; it's where people can chill."

"How do you control the staff? Surely, they have more incentive to break the rules?" John's still looking over the balcony, and Sherlock can see that his eyes are following the waitress he'd spotted earlier. 

"To start with, their every move is traced by the system, so we know where they are, how they're serving, what's happening. The security team uses AI algorithms to detect any unusual activity patterns. Tougher still, there's a non-disclosure clause in their contract. Break it and they will be sued up one side and down the other: damages, intellectual property, you name it. If they ever want to work in the London scene again they play by the rules. We pay way over the odds, and the members are generous with tips. All controlled, of course, through the wrist bands, since no cash is allowed in the house. So, we know who the employees are who are delivering good service, and those who are delivering _too good_ a service if you catch my drift."

To interrupt her, Sherlock asks. "So, no sex on the menu?"

She looks scandalised. "Absolutely not. Our staff are vetted very, very carefully. Few professional sex workers are going to be able to afford membership, so the sex that happens here is between consenting members in the Iceboxes."

This leads neatly to the question that he needs to answer, for personal reasons. "What about drugs? How do you police that?"

"Same tough line. No visible use, no selling, no soliciting. That said, we can't stop pre-loading. If people bring their own supplies in and are discreet enough to avoid the cameras, we aren't the police.  Anyone who lets it go to their heads is given a twenty-minute stint in an room backstage to sober up and rethink their choices before they are escorted from the premises. Two strikes and you're out." She shrugs, "It keeps things under the table and out of sight, which works for us."

Sherlock is curious. "Who's on stage tonight?"

Tiffany checks her watch as she answers "Axwell. He's just finished a week at Tomorrowland in Belgium—totally sold out his arena, with 2,000 on the floor each night. Says he's looking forward to this as a bit of R&R. His light man is utterly gobsmacked by the toys we've got for him to play with. Which is why we're going to cut this short; he needs the room."

 _Rest and recreation_ —it's a phrase that settles into Sherlock's mind. Right now, he could do with some of that. The pace of case work may have slowed due to Mycroft's interference, but the cases the Elizabeth ffoukes had put his way had been demanding. To John's eyes, he would appear to be loitering around the flat and sulking on the sofa, when in fact it has been non-stop work to get the Sigurson Plan in place. Lars is definitely a high maintenance persona to maintain.

The relentless ticking of the clock, a countdown to the courtroom battle with Moriarty—the very notion of it makes his skin crawl with anxiety. Sherlock knows that the three crimes, the arrest and the trial are all designed to show off how invincible Moriarty is. He will use his Fallen Angels to get him off the hook, but Sherlock is still unsure of how it will actually happen.  Powerless to stop the judicial process,  he is getting more and more anxious about what the consequences will be. The Irishman has been willing to endure eleven weeks of remand prison in order to make his point; that's stoking up a lot of momentum for revenge. 

Following Tiffany down the stairs, he stifles the memory of Mycroft berating him for daring to take this on.  She takes them into the White Room, which is a mirror image of the space where she first met them. 

"So, Mister Holmes and Doctor Watson… are you going to take the case?"

He looks at John, who opens his hands in a gesture that tells Sherlock that he's leaving the decision to him. _Good._ Ambivalence at the start is easier for him to work with; it will make it simpler for him to turn it into one more thing to annoy John.

Nodding to Tiffany, he says: "Yes—on one condition. I need access to your membership files, and your attendance list for tonight and Friday night."

"They can't leave the premises. You'll have to do your research here."

Sherlock makes a face. "Inconvenient."

Tiffany stands up to him. "Necessary. Data protection requirements. We are legal, Mister Holmes."

"Let us talk in private."

The request surprises her, but Tiffany nods. "I'll be back in five minutes. After that, I need to get to work, and so do you."

John watches her leave. As soon as the door closes, he turns to Sherlock. "What?"

"You need to go home. You're knackered and will just get in my way."

First surprise, then annoyance flits across John's face. "So much for teamwork, then. What happened to that conductor of light thing?"

"That was then. This is now."

John's stance tightens; his puts his shoulders back and chin up. "What's so different now?"

"Between now and eleven o'clock I'm going to be glued to a computer screen here looking for possible connections between members.  _Boring_ , especially for you, with your hunt-and-peck." To rub it in, he mimics John's typing style, before adding another dollop of snide. "As much as you might enjoy using the time to chat up that blonde waitress you had your eye on earlier, she is happily married with two kids at home. She has work to do tonight, and so do I."

"Who said anything about a blonde waitress?!"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "As if you needed to… Consulting Detective, remember? Go home, John."

"Well, thanks very much for that vote of confidence. Do I have to remind you that _you_ were the one who texted me?"

"That was before I knew what the case involved, or even whether it was worth taking."

Thoroughly vexed now, John leans in a bit closer. "Let me remind you that _we_ haven't had a decent case for weeks? And, now that one comes along, you're just dismissing me as a useless?"

"If you get a reasonable night's sleep tonight, then tomorrow, when I really need you here to stop the murder, you'll be in a fit state. Physician, go heal thyself."

"I'm _fine_."

Sherlock shakes his head. "No, you're not. In fact, you were feeling tired enough to have thought about not coming here when I texted, but did out of some misguided loyalty. I'll be back late; don't wait up. Off you go." He puts as much of a dismissive tone into that last command as he can muster and makes a shooing gesture.

John marches towards the door, turning just as he gets to it. "Sometimes I wonder whether you are worth it."

Even though this is exactly the response he'd been looking for, Sherlock is surprised to discover how much the barb hurts. He _knows_ the apocryphal showdown with Moriarty is not going to be easy, but John's friendship has been— _is_ — the most important relationship of his life.  Losing that friendship in order to keep the man alive is going to be agony.

 _There will be withdrawal symptoms_.

Fighting the sudden constriction in his chest, Sherlock rationalises that it can't be any worse than giving up cocaine. He will get through this. He _has_ to, if John is going to survive.


	3. Investigation

The small office Tiffany has installed Sherlock in has no windows, and scarcely any room in it for more than a desktop PC. Its software is sophisticated; membership data can be manipulated using a tailor-made CRM multivariable database that is way beyond a standard spreadsheet. The soundtrack to his work is Axwell's rehearsal, which he is able to mask wearing a pair of noise-cancelling headphones hanging up alongside the screen.

It doesn't take long for Sherlock to realise that the membership of Chill includes a considerable percentage of the current movers and shakers of London's under forty-year olds. It seems that the membership criteria are all about connections and influence in addition to money. That makes a lot of the four hundred and fifty people in Friday's audience into viable targets for a murder. 

The corporate pod has been booked in the name of Shad Sanderson, which doesn't surprise Sherlock, but he is relieved that Sebastian Wilkes is _not_ listed as either a member or an attendee for tomorrow night. The celebrity party on the other balcony is some singer he's never heard of. He's got a working hypothesis that whoever is going to all this trouble is not going to pick a victim at random. Unless they get invited upstairs, the people on the balconies remain anonymous to the membership at large. He doesn't think that the murder victim would be a member of staff; it could too easily be dismissed as irrelevant to the members.

Within an hour, he has prioritised the list, topped with a dozen names whose deaths would maximise PR impact. He goes on to look at their details and finds photos, so takes long enough to memorise them. Then, on second thought, he does the same for the next forty on the list.

Tiffany looks in at nine in the evening.

"Hungry?" She's carrying a plate of canapes and a bottle of water. "Found anything interesting?"

He leans back in the chair. "Background information which may or may not be helpful. Who has access to these records?"

"Me. And only me. The rest of the staff are only told by the system if the member's ID is valid; orders are all ID'd by the wrist bands, which have a unique identifying code. There's an encrypted cut-out between that and the member's name."

He nods. "Because you also have their bank details for instant payment."

She smiles. "Bryony was right; you are sharp. She's delighted that you've taken the case, by the way." Tiffany slides the plate towards him. "We also justify it as a way of protecting their privacy. If members want to share their name with each other that's their business but, they can also stay anonymous if they wish."

Sherlock looks at the plate somewhat suspiciously.

"Eat; if you're going to be here once the music starts at eleven, you'll be too busy watching the crowd."

Realising that it has been hours since he's had anything resembling a meal, Sherlock picks up a small circle of dark bread that has a single seared scallop on it. Tiffany explains: "Baltic archipelago -style rye loaf with caramelised cauliflower puree; the scallop is topped with deep-fried shreds of chicken skin."

As he bites in, the flavours explode in his mouth. The scallop is perfect—that exact moment between just cooked and chewy, the texture melts in his mouth. The slightly sticky, sweet and malty flavour of the bread underlines the sweetness of the cauliflower, while the crispy shreds add a bit of crunch to the combination. 

"That's… good." He swallows the rest in a second bite. "Really good."

"Even better with a glass of champagne; the acidity balances the sweetness. Want me to get you one?"

"No. I need a clear head for this," he dismissed, gesturing at the screen. He breaks the seal on the water bottle, noticing that it is branded with the club logo and has a thin but hollow cylinder of ice running right through the middle, turning it into a straw. The chemist in him wonders how they manage to freeze just that part and not the rest of the contents. The water he swallows is just the right temperature—not too cold, but not room temperature, either.

Tiffany's headset bleeps and blinks a soft white light, making her frown. "Sorry, got to go now. Are you planning to be around when the club is in full swing?"

He nods and inspects several other canapes on the plate.

"Bryony gave me instructions. Said you might need this." She places a small envelope beside the plate. "She also said that what's in it is between you and her."

Once the door is shut, he opens the envelope and spots a single tablet.

He smiles.

oOoOoOoOoOo

Two hours later, he finishes his work on the staff records. Tiffany is right in that the hiring process had been intense: background checks, references required, and a considerable amount of computer-based scrutiny, too, including credit checks, bank account activity, travel and a social media conduct review. The fact that it is ongoing random scrutiny, rather than a one-off when an employee is hired, is also interesting.

It's a locked-room mystery alright, but the room is the size of a warehouse and there are over five hundred people inside.

Sherlock shuts the computer down and stares at the wall, trying to think through the implications of the data he has accumulated.  Retreating into his Mind Palace, he stands in the middle of the empty dance floor, with images of murder weapons dangling in mid-air.

Anything that requires physical contact between the murderer and their victim—gun, knife, strangulation—runs the risk that their movements and proximity will be logged on the system and would be discovered after death, if not seen immediately by witnesses. While the extortion racket might be able to find a willing person to do the job despite being caught and going to prison, that would be a risky strategy because it might be traced back to them. 

He flicks the weapons away with an imperious wave of his hand, and lets poison take centre stage to become the prime suspect.

Food and drink now appear floating around him, as well as the chemical formulae of the most common poisons. Try something too esoteric, and it would run the risk of being traced back to the murderer. Of course, poisons in food or drink are difficult, too. Getting dosages right and being sure that the product is consumed to the lethal dose required can be challenging.  He also realises that at Chill, spiking a drink is going to be difficult: the number-no-names protocol of wrist bands means the barman doesn't know whose drink he is pouring, assuming that it's a tailor-made cocktail. The Coravin system couldn't be tampered with, or lots of victims would be poisoned and perhaps the real target would escape.  Waitresses delivering drinks to tables would have more opportunity; they, at least, can see the faces of their customers and could conceivably put something in a drink unnoticed.  But how would a waitress know for sure that their chosen target would sit in their area?  And, the fact that the system would record them delivering those drinks would turn them into suspects. The same problem would occur for a member targeting another member with a spiked cocktail or canape; proximity, opportunity, and connection between murderer and victim would be all too easily spotted.

He flicks away most of the food and drink.

_Drugs?_

Looking at the chemical formulae, he knows that some of these poisons could be disguised—or even substituted—for the sorts of drugs that members would be taking. _Cocaine in particular_. His mind stutters for a moment, side-tracked by an envelope in his pocket with a tablet in it. He is so tired at the moment that the lure of the stimulant suddenly snags his attention.

_Not now. I'm busy._ He angrily dismisses that image and re-considers the chemical formulae. 

A murderer could doctor drugs which the victim carries into the club.  The line he draws to this box is dotted.  It would have less impact on the club; members could just chalk it up to an overdose and someone's stupidity. It wouldn't hurt the club's reputation, so not achieve the same effect of piling on pressure to pay up.

Annoyed, he erases the line and the drugs vanish.

_OH!_

A slow-acting toxin could be administered outside by anyone, no access to Chill required. All that would have to happen is for the actual death to occur on the premises.  He slaps away most of the formulae, and starts drawing a series of contingent lines of enquiry. _Poison that can be timed like that is not simple_. It takes expertise to source it, to deliver it to the victim, and to time it so precisely. It would require a lot of surveillance of the target. _Not random._

Subsequent investigation might absolve the club of any responsibility, which could limit the reputational damage, so it is more likely that the murderer would try to find a way to link it to the premises somehow to make other members believe that the poisoning happened onsite, and was their fault.

_Good._ In that scenario, the murderer might have to be onsite on the day but wouldn't need to be anywhere near the target, so long as they could leave forensic investigators enough trace to link the poison to the venue and ramp up the fear factor.

He draws another box in which he scribbles a word— _Gold_.  To ensure that the target is onsite at the same night as the murderer needs careful co-ordination. To maximise the opportunity, both would need to be Gold members—or, one Gold and a full-time employee who had control over their own rota. 

Sherlock starts putting the employees who are on duty on Friday onto the stage. The waitresses and bar staff are front and centre because they have the maximum access to the members. He puts the security staff behind them. Kitchen staff and technical people are pushed off the stage and into the wings; even the DJ is forced to join them because his access is limited. It still leaves almost thirty people on stage.

Then he starts working through the attendee list for Friday night. Leaving the pods aside for the moment, Sherlock realises that, of the four hundred names already listed, three hundred and twelve attendees on Friday are Gold members. The dance hall in his mind now has people on the floor, all facing him. The high rollers in the membership are going to dominate on the best night of the week. He shoos away the Silver and Bronze members, who obligingly disappear. No one timetabling a murder so precisely would take a chance on the standby queue; that would leave selection to chance, so it is highly likely that one of those names reserving entry is the victim.  More of the crowd disappear.

Deduction suggests that the lesser-known names are less likely to be a target; the money at stake warrants a big name. He re-prioritises the list in terms of maximum PR damage a death would have on the club, removing those who are at the bottom of the list.  He stops when there are fifty on the floor, then puts names and faces on the figures.

_Narrow it down._

It would be rational for the murderer to do a bit of a rehearsal, casing the joint so to speak. At least that's what he would do if he were the murderer. Are there any members or employees who are on both tonight and tomorrow night? 

Instantly, more than half of the members and nearly a third of the employees vanish.

_That's better._  

He spins around, taking in the names and faces, but then stops. The whole structure of words and images balancing in the air starts to tremble. 

Is he going about this the right way? He's been thinking like a criminal who wants to get away with murder. If the purpose of the crime is to force Chill to pay out protection money, then being successful in the murder is going to be counter-productive. If someone is actually murdered, then that would kill the golden goose that lays the egg. Even an attempted murder would chase the security conscious members away. Closing the venue is not going to earn them anything, unless it served to scare another target of extortion into paying up.

That makes no sense either. If that is the goal, then the criminals would select a lesser target, one that isn't making as much money and take that one down, using it to force Chill into paying.

He sighs. The motive seems odd. To ratchet up to murder so quickly makes no sense. Tiffany is right—a murder in a place whose major selling points are privacy and safety will destroy the business.  So, why is someone sending these extortion notices?

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

Frustrated, Sherlock decides it is time to visit the real dance floor. He needs to see the reality of it, to acquaint himself with the ebb and flow of the event, and how the members interact. The corridor that leads from Tiffany's office to the dance floor is busy with uniformed staff giving him odd looks, clearly unused to seeing a stranger dressed like he is in their territory.  Unlike the front of house's glamour, this area has practical fluorescent lighting and easy-to-clean, industrial flooring. He notes doors to the kitchen, and staff coming out of a locker room. There is a back entrance that serves as an emergency exit; it is alarmed, however, and clearly not to be used, except in emergencies.

The sound of dance music is audible, but muffled.

"Excuse me, sir. This area is restricted to staff only. How did you get in here?"

_Interesting._   When he turns to face the man who has asked him the question, Sherlock is impressed that someone has spotted him before he could find the camera, and identified him as someone who shouldn't be where he is. The man is dressed in a black jacket, with a small security label.

Sherlock waves his wrist. "I'm working with Tiffany over the next few nights. I have access to all areas."

"I'm going to have to confirm that with security; please wait." The muscular man flips his headset microphone down and says something quietly that gets lost in the blast of music that arrives as a waiter bearing a tray of canapes goes through the door to the main floor.

Whatever Sherlock's obstacle is told through his headset, it is enough, because the man nods and waves him towards the doors to the dance floor. The place clearly takes security seriously, which will make it harder for these staff areas to be used by the murderer, unless he is an employee.

This locked room is getting more challenging by the minute.

Going through the double doors, Sherlock's forward momentum takes him a half dozen steps into the room before the sensory explosion stops him dead in his tracks. 

He's forgotten just how loud the music in a dance club can be.  The bass resonates against his chest to the point where it hits a threshold of pain.  However, it is the lighting that takes him most by surprise. In his time, clubs had spot lights in the ceiling that could rotate and change colour; lasers were used to punctuate the music, but it was all fairly rudimentary.

Not anymore. The translucent walls and ceiling that he'd seen earlier are now revealed to be a seamless video screen surrounding the dancers in a tunnel of visual images that is constantly moving—a shifting kaleidoscope of colour and movement that fills his entire visual field. For a moment, he loses all sense of balance and feels as if he is falling _up_. He reaches blindly for something, _anything_ to ground himself, and his hands catch fabric as he staggers.

"Oi!"

A surprised yell makes him realise that he's grabbed someone's shoulder.

_Sorry_. Did he say that or just think it? In any case, he let's go and steps unsteadily away.

"You alright?!" There is a young woman looking at him oddly.

"Need to sit down…."

She laughs. "Had a bit too much?" She doesn't seem upset. In fact, she takes his hand and leads him over to one of the sofas. "Sit; wait for the rush to pass. You'll be okay." Then she dances back into the crowd, hands above her head, swaying them in time to the lights that are now flashing in time to the music, picking out dancers in their beams.

It's not what she thinks, but the remedy she has delivered may help him cope with this level of sensory overload. The soft, wide sofa brings back memories of the first time he'd been to a dance club.

He takes the tablet out of the envelope, palming it carefully. He is going to assume that this is MDMA; it would make sense that Bryony would provide him with it, given the fact that she had known about his own use of Ecstasy that first night to make the experience more tolerable. The half-finished bottle of water had been left behind on the desk, but he's experienced enough at the dry swallow if he decides the tablet is needed.

In 2000, Sherlock had not taken any stimulants after that first night, but things had been different back then. He hadn't been alone; having someone to focus on had made the drug unnecessary. That realisation opens a door in his Mind Palace that he'd thought double locked by regret, boarded up and plastered over by time. _Don't think about him_. _Not now, not ever_.

But, his eidetic memory is both useful for his work and a curse, and recollections of his clubbing days come flooding back. A firm, muscled body moving next to him, tethered by sexual attraction barely held in check, relishing the release of physical exertion. Then the rush back to Saxon Street when finally he and Victor would…

_NO!_ He cannot afford such sentimental nostalgia. Angry with himself, Sherlock drags another memory to the surface—the last time he'd been in a club. He now relives—as it if were yesterday—the utter despair, anger and distress which had driven him to the decision to take the too-high dose of cocaine, followed immediately by the heroin chaser. All he'd wanted was for the pain to end, permanently. It is all there, still—memories immured, hidden under the floorboards, stuffed up in the attic, buried in the gardens of the Mind Palace, and that's where they must stay.

Sherlock draws a shaky breath and releases it very slowly.

_That was then. This is now._

Putting the tablet back in the envelope, he opens his eyes, willing himself to deal with the sensory onslaught.

Five minutes later, he's on his feet again and moving through the crowds. His eyes are devouring every movement of dancers and club employees, sorting through the data for patterns, ebbs and flows that will tell him how a murderer is going to get away with it.

_I have work to do_.


	4. Deception

With a screech and a shudder, the private jet's wheels touch down on the tarmac. One of the only two passengers on board grips the arms of the seat, and his knuckles stay white as the brakes are applied, pushing him forward against the seat belt. In the seat across the aisle, the other passenger notices and comments. "I didn't know you were a nervous flyer."

"I'm not. It's this particular landing that worries me," the tall blond man replies. He's dressed in what could be called West Coast smart-casual. Tailored chinos, a long sleeved pima cotton polo shirt under a linen-silk blend jacket, smart leather loafers—very Californian.

"You're the one who said we hadda go from New York to France and then here." The thick accent comes out sounding more like the New York banker Steve Greene is than the Californian deal maker he aspires to be. The distinctive flat vowels of a Brooklynite seem hard to shed, no matter how much he spends on his pinstriped suits and tailor-made dress shirts. "If landings bug you, we couldda come straight here and cut out the detour."

"No, absolutely not, Steve. This way, we enter under EU rules, with less scrutiny even though we are outside the Schengen area." They've had this conversation before, and repetition is tiresome.

Steve looks at Victor as if he's just sprouted horns. "Yeah, and what of it? You were _born_ here, mate. No problem, as all the kids say these days."

"I explained it all back in San Jose. I don't want _anyone_ to know that I am here. I am under the radar for the first three days, until the Stock Market opens on Monday."

As the plane taxis down the apron of Biggin Hill airport, Victor watches Steve settle back in the tan leather seat of the Beechcraft Hawker 750.  As the engine whine throttles back, the New York banker slides a folder into his briefcase, snaps closed the tablet sleeve and looks at his watch. "Bang on time. Look, I've gone along with this secret thing, but it's my name on the flight charter, so if anyone finds out you're using a fake passport, I could get into trouble."

Victor clicks open his seatbelt. "You're being paid handsomely for it. The trouble won't be yours; it will be mine."

"Yeah, you told me, but you never said _why._ "

"It's private."

Steve sighs. "Well, I'm just glad you're here. Only you'd be crazy enough to launch an IPO in London without showing yourself.  You're a goddamned Silicon Valley Celeb.  Because the media think it's happening without you, they're all saying the opening price is going to be 10% down on original estimate. We've been over all of this, _ad nauseum._ We've booked your meetings with the key institutions today under embargo until the market opens. What you get up to on Saturday and Sunday is your business, but after the IPO news hits the wire services on Monday, your photo will be everywhere. I just don't get it."

Victor shrugs. He's done enough soul-searching about this visit. "By then, I'll be on my way to the airport and out of the country. It'll be too late for anyone to do anything." He pulls out the UK passport issued in the name of Vincent Heritage, and stands up.

To his dismay, Steve's curiosity has not been satisfied: "Sheesh, did you commit a crime or something? Are the Brits chasing you for back taxes? Unpaid parking tickets? Skulking around all week-end on your own seems, I don't know… weird."

"I didn't ask you for your opinion."

"Well, okay. You gotta do what you gotta do. Here's the pay-as-you-go phone you asked for. No names, no blame as they say." He shrugs. "That's your choice. But this is London and _I_ plan to have me some fun. You know, shows, clubs, women. Shad Sanderson swear they'll show us a good time."

"Not my scene, as you know. There is a reason why I put eight thousand miles between me and the UK."

The ground crew have lowered the steps and Madison, the JetAir stewardess, flashes Victor— _no,_ _Vince_ , he reminds himself _—_ a smile that she's been working on ever since they left the West Coast last night.  Steve had tried to chat her up but threw in the towel somewhere over the mid-Atlantic since she only seemed to have eyes for Victor.

It's not a novelty for him, being noticed.  He's tried to stay in shape with a regular gym habit. Tall and muscular enough compared to the usual Silicon Valley start-up geeks who look like they just got out of high school, Victor's image has graced the media more often than he feels comfortable with. As of Monday, if all goes well, he is going to be in the media's eye even more, because he will be worth hundreds of millions of dollars.

There are risks in being here.

And risks if he isn't. The flotation of GeneTAC on the London Stock Market is going to be an important step in Victor's future.  It's taken thirteen years to get from a start-up by three Stanford MBA students to being the CEO of a company with thousands of employees, all working at the interface of genetic engineering, agricultural science and climate change. Victor had bought out control from his other two partners before he'd even graduated. At thirty-six, he owns seventy percent of the company outright. The other thirty percent is spread between three private investors, all of whom will make a make a killing when the stock floats. The IPO will expand the capital base of the company a hundred-fold and catapult it into the upper echelons of biotech firms. The London Stock Exchange Prospectus says it all: after years of acting as a consultant to other firms wanting to invest in new gene-based technologies, GeneTAC will be launching a new investment fund, focusing on bringing the benefits of gene sequencing and gene-editing to agriculture in both the developing and developed worlds—a sort of SoftBank for agriculture. The financial media have been whipping up enthusiasm; now, it's time to deliver.

That pressure has put him on the plane, even though he knows that he once promised never, ever to come to the UK again.  He just hopes to God he can pull this off and be away before someone in particular notices he's here.

Ten minutes later, the UK Borders Agent glances at his passport and waves him through. Steve hands over his completed landing card, gets his US passport stamped, and they move on to the pre-booked helicopter transfer. In less than fifteen minutes they will be at the Battersea heliport in central London.  It sure beats Heathrow any day, and the fact that there are no traffic cameras or CCTV to track his presence is an added bonus.

oOoOoOoOoOo

Even a private jet can't make a difference to jetlag, so Victor heads for a shave and a shower at the flat he's borrowed. This, too, is all part of the camouflage: a hotel would need a passport, and even a fake one might be traced, so he's taking no chances. The head of research at GeneTAC has a London flat, an investment made because his son is working at Imperial College. He's been happy to let Victor use it for the weekend, because the boy is in California visiting parents this week. 

Victor uses the burner phone Greene has given him to order him a taxi to take him to the City, using the name Vincent Heritage. Across Vauxhall Bridge and then along the Embankment, from the back seat he is amazed at how much has changed in the years since he was last here. As they pass under the rail bridge for Charing Cross station, a memory seizes his attention—Heaven. Entering under the arched brick ceiling, dancing, the first night when–– Victor assumes the club must be long gone by now but the memories are not. He doesn't regret staying away from London; the place is too full of ghosts. Or, rather, one particular ghost.

The pain of loss seizes him, making him close his eyes. This is what he had wanted to avoid.

_Gone but not forgotten._

The cab has to stop at a traffic light just before the Bank intersection, and Victor opens his eyes again to get his bearings, immediately recognising the strange pink-and-white-striped building of Number One, Poultry.  With a groan of despair, he wonders if everything in London is going to be like this, reminding him of what he had once had and lost. He finds himself wondering if the Coq d'Argent is still there. That night's dinner, an early celebration of his twenty-first birthday, had put things in motion which had changed his life forever.

When the lights change, Victor banishes the memories that well up. _Not now._ He has work to do.

A minute later the taxi has arrived at the final destination: Tower42 on Old Broad Street, the London headquarters of the bank that is handling the flotation on the stock exchange.   The attractive young woman at the reception desk phones up, and then hands him his badge. "You're to go right up, sir. They've already started the meeting."

The lift is so quick it makes his ears pop, and he's still shaking his head when he is met and taken to the meeting room. Victor takes a moment to straighten his posture, takes a deep breath and puts a smile on his face. Even if it isn't genuine, it's still worth doing before he pushes open the heavy wooden door and walks into the boardroom of Shad Sanderson bank.  

On one side of the table, he spots his CFO, Tim Macdonald, who has been handling the nuts and bolts of the flotation. Arranged on either side of Tim are ten of his team assembled for the operation—the professional advisers and service providers who have done the heavy lifting involved with making an Initial Public Offering. Accountants, lawyers and just about everybody else will be making a lot of money in three days' time; Victor hopes to God that they will earn it by stopping him from making any silly mistakes. Steve Greene is there, too, and nods a greeting.

On the other side of the table are representatives of a dozen of London's largest institutional investors. These are the men and women who will make Victor's company's debut on the stock market a success—or, doom it to a rapid sell-off and a downward price spiral that has afflicted many of the so-called unicorns—privately held start-up companies valued at over a billion dollars.

Victor is a bit nervous, as all of this is very new to him. He has to stop thinking about numbers, even if these potential investors want him to give them hints. No projected financial or other numerical performance measures can be used in the roadshows before the launch. The marketing presentation has been approved by the listing authorities, and he's here today to answer final questions and get the institutions on board for their allocation of the shares being listed. The book-building process is challenging; these institutions have to want the shares enough to make non-binding bids. If things go well, it should guarantee that the share price rises on Monday instead of falling.

As he takes his seat, Mark Bradstreet, Managing Director of Shad Sanderson, introduces him. "Sorry to interrupt the discussion, but we thought you wouldn't mind a late arrival. Here he is, Victor Trevor himself.  I know you weren't told about him being here today, but I think we can all agree how delighted we are by the fact that he could join us in person."

Victor gives a slightly self-deprecating smile and then says, "I'm just here to provide window-dressing; Tim is the one who's on top of all the data."

As each of the institution representatives introduces themselves, the mood in the room seems to lift and he sees smiles on the faces of the GeneTAC team.

_Maybe this won't be so hard, after all._

As the discussion resumes where it left off, Tim handles the difficult questions with the finesse Victor has come to respect.  He'd been a great hire—Stanford graduate, ten years older than Victor and with prior experience of knowing just how to handle the nitty-gritty and leave him to the work that he does so well.  It's been a hard thirteen years; work has been full-on and demanding, but it has given Victor a lot of pleasure to see companies that he and his consultants advise go on to make the most of new technology. One of the things that CEOs and boards of directors have really liked is his willingness to back his advice with a personal investment. So, in addition to fee income that had kept the business growing in the early years, a whole series of investments has been given the time to develop and mature without having the pressure of bank finance or an over-hasty exit. Victor has built a reputation for knowing how to maximise the value of new genetic technology. 

It's Margaret Boothy from Aberdeen Investment Trust who asks the first question needing an answer from him. The fifty-two year old is something of a legend in fund managers. _Tough as old boots_ is how Steve Greene had described her when briefing Victor about the people he was due to meet this morning.

"So, how's GeneTAC protecting its most valuable asset?"

Tim blinks in confusion. "Which asset is that, Ms Boothy?"

She nods in Victor's direction. "The man who founded the company, the one who wins the clients, who makes the investment decisions."

Tim swallows. "Key man insurance, of course."

She laughs, and Victor feels he has to step in. "GeneTAC is not a one-man band, I assure you. The teams that work on both the advice side and the investment side have an excellent track record detailed in the prospectus. You've read it, so you know that no one is irreplaceable. GeneTAC stands as a company on its own merits. It isn't dependent on any one person."

"You're too modest, Mister Trevor. Not something that I usually associate with Californian start-up CEOs. Then again, I'd like to think that your British origins may have something to do with it."

He gives her what his ex-wife had called ' _your knock-em-dead_ ' smile, but it doesn't stop Ms Boothy from asking the question he has been dreading: "Why keep your visit here so private, Mister Trevor? Could it have something to do with the fact that, according to the media, you haven’t stepped foot in the UK since 2001. Why is that?"

He shifts in his seat. "After my father died thirteen years ago, I have no living family in the UK. I went to Stanford to do the MBA, and got hooked on California. I haven't had any reason to come back here, least of all the climate. Until now. But, I'd rather not have to deal with distractions from the media over the next three days, so as a condition of taking this meeting you are all required to keep my presence confidential until Monday morning. It's GeneTAC that should be in the limelight, not me."

Questions then return to the prospectus until Simon Wills from Schroders asks about the other private shareholders: "I know that two of the three are your former partners—Sam Blanchard and Gloria Lim who were your classmates. You bought them out and gave them a ten percent equity stake in return for ceding management control. That much is clear in the prospectus. But, who is this other investor—PPS? The listing at Companies House just identifies it as an offshore family office based in Jersey. Can you tell us more about them, please?"

 _Shit._ This is not a question Victor wants to answer. Doing that will open a whole can of worms, and any digging by any of the organisations around this table will most likely trigger a great deal of interest from one Lord Mycroft Holmes, who is the sole director of PPS.

Smiling, he says " _Private_ investor… it's what it says on the tin. Someone who was helpful at the start of the business. They like to stay private, as is their legal right but I can assure you that they are a trustworthy, legal British entity with an impeccable pedigree."

"Any chance of buying them out?"

"No. Next question?"

Fortunately, the Legal & General man has something terribly obscure to ask about accounting treatment variations between the US and UK on the subject of good will, which allows Victor to breathe a sigh of relief as he defers to his team.

The session is intense but after the first hour, Victor relaxes enough to start to enjoy it. By the final thirty minutes, the representatives seem to have got what they are looking for and are still smiling. Talk turns more casual, and they are interested in hearing more from him about what he thinks the future of gene technology is going to be like.

It's a subject near and dear to him. "Most of the attention has been paid to medical applications—fair enough. The potential of gene editing, of genetic modification to eradicate disease, to treat existing conditions, to tailor pharmaceuticals to the unique genetic make-up of an individual—it will make a huge difference to humanity."

He leans forward, pulling them into his enthusiasm. "But, there will be a lot of ethical issues involved in that, enough red tape to delay if not bury lots of medical innovations due to costs. In contrast, in agricultural production, the debate has focussed on genetically modified food, and the environmental activists have made life difficult in the EU. What's different is that GeneTac doesn't need to go there; none of our investments involve GMO in the food chain or anywhere else for that matter. What I am excited about is something different—a technique for _silencing_ existing genes. You don't have to insert anything new, just use the plants' own natural defence mechanisms."

His audience is silent, leaning forward.

"It's called RNAI— _RNA Interference_. It blocks production of a protein. That can make a huge difference, raising resistance towards rust virus on rye grains, fungus on rice, bacteria on wheat. With one spray, a crop can be made to boost its yield, protect itself from drought, actually increase available nutrition. And, all of that can be done without altering the DNA. We don't have to mess with pests and predators, changing their DNA and damaging the ecosystems as a result. Farmers won't have to spend a fortune on pesticides, trying to kill insects like aphids that spread viruses. That's good for the environment, too."  

"If it's so good, why hasn't it been done before now?" This question comes from quietly spoken grey-haired man down at the far end of the table. He's Harry Lim McPherson, half Hong Kong Chinese, half Scottish and the head man at HSBC Global Asset Management.

Victor is delighted by the question. "It _has_ been done, by a university research unit, not a private company. Monsanto has been throwing its money into RNAI sprays to kill bugs, but GeneTAC thinks the real key is inside the plant itself. What's held it back in the past has been the cost of making the RNA. A few years ago, it would have cost a hundred thousand dollars to make the gram or so of RNA needed to treat a single field. That's where my investment fund is going to make the difference: backing a company that is going to mass-produce RNA will lower the cost to two dollars a gram. It's going to put it within reach of developing country farmers all around the world. That is the excitement I was talking about; once this gets into commercial production, it's going to start a whole new Green Revolution. It's the whole reason why this IPO is happening."

His enthusiasm is infectious and the meeting ends on a high.

As soon as the representatives leave the boardroom, Victor's float team breaks into applause.

Tim is all smiles. "Just brilliant, Vic. I am so glad you changed your mind and came, after all. You have always been the best one to explain our vision of the future."

Mark Bradstreet is beaming. "Let's get some lunch down us before the next lot arrive at three."

He leads the way into another room where a sumptuous buffet is laid out. Victor is given first choice, but to be honest, he's hardly hungry and heads straight for the coffee instead. Behind him the float team and Tom Macdonald tuck in to the feast. 

Taking his elbow, Mark steers Victor to the side of the room. "Brilliant work, Mister Trevor; thank you. Just repeat that performance this afternoon, and the share price is going to rocket on Monday. Clients like you mean we have fewer worries about last-minute hitches. What can I do for you now? Between now and the afternoon session, we've set aside a room next door where you can relax and unwind a bit. Tonight, we see a half dozen of the heavy hitters from the US investors, but that's going to be in a much more relaxed environment."

"If you are expecting me to do anything this evening other than sleep, I am going to need to catch up with some during the day. Jet lag and all that…"

"I've got just the remedy. The most comfortable chair in the bank; great for a power nap."

Mark leads him into a smaller meeting room where there is a reclining chair positioned near the floor-to-ceiling window. On the thirty-eighth floor of Tower42, this is one of the most amazing views that Victor has ever seen—it looks as though the whole of London lies at his feet. Below, the Bank intersection is buzzing with traffic. In the distance, he can make out the Thames and the London Eye, and, to his left, the Shard glistens in the bright sunshine. 

He remembers a different view of London, all those years ago—back alleys, car parks, narrow streets and churchyards. Victor tries to spot Fleet Street, suddenly remembering Ye Olde Bell and a photograph he had once taken there. He still has it, in a box pushed to the back of a wardrobe in his loft apartment in San Jose. He hasn't looked at it for years, but he's not surprised that being back in London has reminded him of the person in the picture, wearing a smile reserved for Victor only.

_Where are you now, Sherlock?_


	5. Determination

Sherlock is stretched out on the sofa, eyes shut, still wearing the clothes he wore to the warehouse yesterday.

John deposits a cup of tea on the coffee table and contemplates the unusual sight of a sleeping consulting detective, or at least one who seems to be pretending to be in that state. He's still annoyed enough by being abruptly dismissed last night, so he uses his knee to nudge Sherlock's shoulder.

"Late night then?"

It's a rhetorical question, because he knows the answer. John had come back to the flat, fixed himself some scrambled eggs and then left most of it to go cold before shovelling it into the bin. He doesn't think he's coming down with a virus, but he'd still felt disgruntled and unsettled all night. He'd watched crap TV until he gave up waiting for Sherlock and went to bed. He'd heard Sherlock downstairs in the bathroom at about half past four.

"I know you're not asleep."

Without opening his eyes, Sherlock mutters: "Migraine."

John's medical instincts take over, pushing his irritation aside. "Want some ibuprofen ?"

With a sigh, Sherlock warily cracks open an eye. "Close the curtains. The light…." He waves a desultory hand at the offending window.

John obliges and then heads for the medicine chest in the bathroom.  

Depositing the two tablets and a glass of water alongside the as yet untouched mug of tea, John can't resist, "Trying to sleep when a case is on? That's new."

"So's the migraine. Haven't had one for years."

"I'm guessing that you haven't had one since your days of clubbing. Bright lights, loud music—not surprising it doesn't agree with you. I never imagined you liking anything other than classical music, so imagine my surprise to find out you were into that scene."

"That was then. This is now."

"Get anywhere last night? With the case, I mean."

"Yes. I know a lot more about what is possible. But the motive is not at all clear. We're due there tonight at nine."

"So, you don't mind me…tagging along?" He says it with a certain acidity, still feeling a bit irritated.

Sherlock sighs. "Of course not. I'm going to need all the help I can get, especially if this migraine hangs around. Right now, I need you to stop talking and go away."

"Can you make it to your bedroom? You need to sleep. It's the best cure. I'll be off to the surgery in another hour, but I'll be back here at five. Have you ever taken any proper migraine meds?"

"As I said, I haven't had one in a long time. There wasn't much available back then."

"Well, if you start feeling like you could use something stronger and more effective, text me. I'll ask a colleague at the surgery to write a scrip and pick the prescription up on the way home."

oOoOoOoOo

No texts mean either Sherlock has slept or that the migraine is gone, so John grabs a takeaway curry on the way home, and eats it on his own.  At seven in the evening there is still no sign of Sherlock emerging from his bedroom, and John is beginning to get twitchy. Should he wake him up? Or let sleeping detectives lie?

The decision is made for him when Sherlock's phone buzzes. He'd left it on the coffee table, and John picks it up for a look. It's from Tiffany.

**19.17   FYI Last minute guests in Pod: Sebastian Wilkes + Vincent Heritage.**

_Shit._ John's last encounter with the banker had been barely cordial, even though Wilkes had handed over a cheque for £20,000. He wonders what Sherlock's reaction will be. Would the fact that Wilkes knows him compromise his plans to stake out the club? Not for the first time, John feels utterly left out of this case. Sherlock has told him almost nothing.

When he knocks and pushes open Sherlock's bedroom door, John sees that he's already awake and getting dressed.

"Feeling better?"

"Yes." It's a bit terse, as if Sherlock is embarrassed.

"Message from Tiffany at Chill." He passes over the phone and Sherlock takes a look. 

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock mutters, "That's one person I wouldn't mind seeing murdered."

John's somewhat startled. "The guy's a berk for sure, but I wouldn't wish him dead."

"You don't know him the way I did."

"You took the Van Coon case. He paid up when we solved it."

"You said you needed the money. I wouldn't have touched the case otherwise; too easy."

This rankles a bit, so John can't resist replying. "Easy? I seem to recall I got an ASBO, and then ended up a hostage with a gun to my head while you were almost too late on the scene. Not my definition of easy."

This is what they seem to be doing lately, bickering over things that used to be fun. It's almost like Sherlock is trying to needle him.

Sherlock finishes buttoning up a black dress shirt over his black trousers and then frowns when he looks at John. "You're going to need to be dressed as one of the security staff; have you got a black shirt and trousers? They'll provide the jacket."

"Oh joy, fancy dress… What are you going as?"

"Waiter; I get the jumpsuit. I'll change there. Camouflage, John. It means that members will ignore both of us, yet we will be free to move wherever we want."

"Is it going to be a problem that Wilkes could recognise you or me?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "He's going to stay on the balcony; it's unlikely we will need to go up there. The victim is going to be a regular member, most likely someone who was there last night. Just a coincidence that Wilkes is going to be there. Since he and his companion are last-minute additions, I doubt either is the target."

Sherlock bends from the waist to tie his lace up shoes. Not for the first time, John realises that the man has put on weight recently to good effect, presenting a more muscular solidity than he used to. With so few cases commanding his attention, Sherlock's been disappearing during the day to work out at a gym, practicing some obscure martial art. It's been yet another reason for John to take up more locum work. Sitting around the flat is starting to drive him stir-crazy, too. Until Moriarty is put away in prison for good, John doesn't think things will get back to normal.  Before, Sherlock had always regaled him with every tiny detail of a case; now, getting anything from him now is like getting blood from a stone.

John still feels he has to try, so he asks: "Is that what kept you so late last night? Checking out the members who are also going to be there tonight?"

That gets a nod. John decides that if Sherlock had been willing to sleep while the case is on, perhaps he can be convinced to break another rule. "You should eat something. I could microwave the curry I brought back."

"The very thought makes me nauseous." Sherlock pushes past him to go into the bathroom, squeezes a tube of something which he then rubs between his palms before carding it through his curls.

John is astonished. "You? Using gel in your hair?"

"Camouflage, John. Not using it would make me stand out, just when I need to be invisible."

"Well, don't expect me to join in."

"Wouldn't dream of it. You're security staff. Butch tough guy image suits you."

John's not sure whether that is meant as a dig or a compliment, and it niggles away at him until it's time for them to leave the flat and head south of the river.

oOoOoOoOoOo

"What exactly are we looking for?"

Sherlock looks up from his phone. "Good question. The answer's not simple." He shrugs. "I'll know it when I see it. Something will stand out, a change of pattern, a difference in behaviour." He returns his attention back to the phone, a webpage biography of one of the most important of the Chill members: Jason Willoughby, the Prime Minister's Parliamentary Private Secretary and long-time personal confidante and friend of the family. Channelling a bit of Mycroft for the moment, Sherlock is thinking that the maximum PR damage to the club would be caused by this man's murder. The thought makes him cross. Relations with Mycroft have deteriorated to the point where they have not spoken since Baskerville.  Elizabeth Ffoukes is trying to protect him and the Sigurson Plan, but their brotherly rift is just one more burden to add to his anxiety.

"You do know that it's almost impossible to protect five hundred people, anyone of whom could be the victim?"

Sherlock glares at John, as the cab crosses the Monument intersection and heads down Eastcheap. He'd taken this case for John's sake, at least in part, and the man seems ungrateful. He snaps, " _Almost_ is the operative word. To start with, it's not five hundred. You can safely cut out all the staff from the list of potential victims, and prioritise the members.  The target will be a Gold member, one who was in attendance last night as well as tonight, and whose death will have public repercussions. That cuts the list down to about thirty people."

"Thirty people… still a lot to keep an eye on."

"We will have help. There are four security people on the main floor at any one time, and the control room has software able to track the movements of everyone, so we can know where those thirty are at any one time. I've already sent the watch list to the head of security at the club. I've also told Lestrade to be ready for a call tonight."

There is a traffic snarl up at the intersection of Tower Hill and East Smithfield; the box junction which should be kept clear is a mess of stopped cars. Sherlock drums his fingers on the armrest of the door.  He's keyed up, on edge and in need of a cigarette.  He's been sneaking them when he's out of the flat and likely to change his clothes before seeing John again. Cases used to be fun, but he isn't feeling that way about this one. The migraine is still there, just a buzz on the back of his brain, enough to be irritating, but not incapacitating. _Why am I wasting my time with this?_

Anxiety is beginning to beat a tattoo of regret. This is just a side-show, and he shifts about on the seat, annoyed at the traffic delay.

John is restless, too. He fidgets in frustration and asks, "Any ideas about the murderer?"

"That's more difficult, but again not impossible. Unless the murderer is an accomplished and experienced killer, it is likely that they will be nervous. Most people at a club are not nervous. We need to keep our eyes open for unusual behaviours."

"How does one behave at a club?"

 Sherlock snorts. "You really have led a sheltered life, John."

"Don't blame me. Unlike some posh git I know, I was working my way through medical school to pay my tuition fees.  Clubs were expensive.  Mike took me to a rave once—out in Epping, at an abandoned warehouse.  I thought the music was repetitive and boring. It was weird watching everyone else getting high while staying stone cold sober. We left early."

"Always the puritanical zealot, but I am sure you and Stamford propped up many a bar in your time. Pubs are clearly more your scene."

John shrugged. "Alcohol is legal."

John's reaction reminds Sherlock that he still has the envelope and its contents in his pocket, should it prove necessary, which it might. If John found out, so what? One more reason for the man to put distance between them.

What he cannot afford is a repeat of last night's sensory overload. The case had kept him focused for a while, but eventually he'd needed a time-out in Tiffany's office. The respite had made him wonder how he'd managed all those sessions at Cindy's in Cambridge, and that had brought back too many other memories, making him regret taking the case on even more. 

He'd managed to keep those memories at bay until after midnight. Leaving the White Room, where he'd been watching one of the thirty possible targets regaling a table full of younger men, Sherlock had ventured onto the dance floor, hoping to spot another possible victim on his list. This one was a media man, Dermott McLean, the head of news production at the BBC. They'd be sure to give maximum publicity to the murder of one of their own, so he was in the top five targets. 

He'd found the man he actually recognised from the telly dancing alongside a very attractive blonde woman, whose face he couldn't quite see.  Sherlock had been moving closer to get a better look when the music changed. The room went dark for a moment, and then a crash of cymbals had been followed by a series of huge bass thumps that shook the floor. When the keyboard chords came in, Sherlock recognised the music: Darude's Sandstorm.

Distracted, he'd turned to the stage where a wave of red light emerged from behind the DJ, cloud-like and swirling, moving out onto the walls and ceiling as the music increased in volume. By the time the oh-so-familiar electronic motif had begun, Sherlock had been swept into a memory of his first night at Heaven, when he'd been totally overwhelmed until he'd found the way to focus on the one thing that lit up his life at that time: _Victor._

Standing there on Chill's dance floor thirteen years later, he'd closed his eyes, tasting ginger and lemon grass as the electronic beat became faster and faster, until, at the crescendo, the dance floor had erupted around him into a frenzy of movement. He'd lost sight of the man he was supposed to be following, and all conscious thought had been blown away by a memory... 

_Skin. Sherlock is moving his fingers over flesh stretched taut by firm pectoral muscles, his violin callouses making the sensation of touch stutter in his brain. The texture of soft, blond chest hair is such a pleasing contrast. The sound of Victor's mouth on his, a tangle of tongues; the scent as he breathes in what Victor has just exhaled. So close. All he wants, needs, desires, is to get as much of his own skin into contact with Victor's. He wants no sense of where his body ends and where Victor's begins._

The tsunami of memory unleashed by the music had stopped him dead in his tracks, until a dancer had bumped into him. The collision had grounded him enough in the now that he'd opened his eyes. The woman was smiling, and then laughed, leaning close enough to shout over the music. "I'm happy to see you, too."

He'd been confused until she'd pointed at his groin, and he'd been horrified to see that he had a full-on erection, making its presence known through his trousers. He had fled from the floor, and hidden his embarrassment in the loo, locking himself in a stall until he could calm down. His body's betrayal had refused to abate, somehow finding sustenance in a memory that he kept trying desperately to stuff back in his Mind Palace where it belonged. Angry with his loss of control, he'd finally taken his cock in his hand and glared at the traitorous piece of anatomy, demanding it to go away. 

He'd summoned up gruesome images of crime scenes, autopsies, cadavers, Mycroft's disapproving face—anything in the hope of banishing the arousal—but to no avail. Finally, he'd just spat in his hand and ferociously began to stroke himself, anger giving a rough edge to his treatment. When the orgasm took him, there had been no pleasure in it. He'd been forced to sit down, putting his head between his knees to try to recover. By the time he'd left the cubicle, he had a piercing headache, and the storm of emotion had left him gasping, sweaty and shaking. The aural distortions had then kicked in and he'd found it hard to focus on anything. After a hasty text message to Tiffany saying he'd see her on Friday, he'd left the club. The full-blown migraine had started in the back of the cab back to Baker Street. 

As tonight's cab driver leans on his horn and starts shouting at the traffic jam, Sherlock realises he's still feeling the aftershocks of it even now, a day later. He cannot afford distractions like this. He has to solve the case quickly tonight and get back to what really matters. John's survival requires it. Finally, the traffic untangles and they get underway again.

Not a moment too soon for Sherlock's frustration, they pull up in front of the warehouse. He hands John the wrist bracelet from last night, and slaps his own on.  This time, they can hear the sound of the door's electronic lock releasing before they reach the threshold, allowing Sherlock to push open the door onto the ice corridor.  He gives a wave to the camera that he knows will be checking their visual ID against the facial recognition software.

The soothing cold of the surrounding ice is a relief, but a short-lived one.  

   
oOoOoOoOoOo

Three hours later, the place is full to the brim with members. It's the party night of the week, black tie dress code and the world's most famous DJ is in the house. David Guetta is entertaining a crowd that knows all of his work for the past decade, and he is relishing the intimacy of the venue to engage in banter with them.  It's been enough to thin out the guests in the White and Black Rooms; cuisine is losing out to celebrity.

The security team is in position, John is in his disguise and Sherlock has swapped his clothes for a waiter's black jumpsuit. He's working the left side of the floor, moving from bar to the seating areas, keeping an eye on who is going in and out of the iceboxes. He's grateful for the headset that gives him a bit of in-ear protection from the volume of the music. So far, he's been able to keep the sensory onslaught just about under control, but his headache is getting worse. 

John is on the other side of the room, headset on and microphone positioned so he can talk to the control room without raising suspicions. They can relay messages to and from Sherlock as well, so they are able to stay in touch even when the light show makes it hard to see anyone more than a few feet away.

They both have tablet devices that are linked to the Chill database, tracking the movement of the top ten targets.  Even if they can't see always see them in the throng, the system can—as drinks are bought, food is consumed, privacy is obtained.  Even so, Sherlock is becoming increasingly convinced that there is almost no way they are going to be able to _prevent_ a murder, if indeed one is going to be attempted. Niggles about motive keep eating away at his resolve. Why would anyone use murder as a way of extorting money? It makes no sense. 

"Hey, what do I have to do around here to get you to take an order?"

This is shouted in his ear as he pushes his way past the throng standing at the edge of the sofa seating area.  He turns to look at the member, and recognises him as Miles Stratford, a CEO of a FTSE 100 company—number seventeen of the thirty.  He's giving Sherlock an up-and-down look that signals his interest is not just in getting a drink and not for the first time tonight Sherlock is regretting having to wear this ridiculously revealing outfit.

Still, it is a disguise that allows him to move into areas that staff use without attracting suspicion. For the sake of that disguise, he occasionally has to act the part, which he does now. "Sorry, sir. What can I get you?" He glances down at the tablet, ready to tap it in.

"A bottle of Dom Perignon 2008, two glasses and _you_ in the icebox in ten minutes." 

When he looks up, Miles is smiling at him. _I don't have time for this_.  He plasters on a fake smile and answers "I'm sorry, but fraternizing between members and employees is against the member rule book, as I am sure you know. I can get a waitress to bring you the bottle and a single glass, if you are unable to find a willing companion amongst the membership."

"No need to be rude, although actually it rather suits you. Sulky is just a bit sexy. You'd get a very generous tip, I can assure you."

Sherlock is deciding how to deal with this bore when his headset radio crackles into life. "This is the bar on Pod One, calling for security. We've got an incident brewing, could be trouble."

He gives another fake smile to Standish. "Sorry, duty calls." He's already half way around the bar before he realises it might not be sensible to go himself. "If you are sending someone up to the Shad Sanderson crew, it shouldn't be John Watson."

"Too late. He's already on his way up there with Pete. Sounds like a two-man job, because the two guys arguing up there are pretty big blokes."

Sherlock moves out further onto the dance floor and looks up, hoping to see what's going on in the pod.  He can see John is nearly at the top of the stairs, while the other guard is just starting up. The rest of the pod's inhabitants are not visible; the balcony offers privacy.

 _Is this a distraction?_  Sherlock looks down at his tablet, squinting in the blue light to see where the other targets are. Almost all of them seem to be on the dance floor now, but it's so busy that it is almost impossible to identify who is who. From where he is standing, all he can see is a horde of dancers' heads, most of which are turned away from him.

Anxiety ratchets up another notch.  _I am so stupid to have taken this case._

oOoOoOoOoOo

By the time John gets through the glass door onto the balcony, Pete is right behind him. As they come through together, the barman catches their eye and nods to his left where two men are arguing.

John doesn't have Sherlock's photographic memory for faces, but he can recognise Sebastian Wilkes from behind.  _Just my bloody luck._ On second thought, even knowing the guy as little as he does, he's not surprised. His brand of snide would get up the nose of most people. John realises that if Wilkes recognises him, it might compromise their surveillance, so he lets Pete take the lead in moving forward, so he can speak to the waiter. "What's happening?"

"Just hang fire for a minute. The two guys seem to know each other and it isn't in a friendly way. But the MD— Mark Bradstreet— has stepped in and it may not get ugly."

John takes in the obvious discomfort of the other men sitting on the sofas; a few get up to drift over to the balcony to watch the stage, trying to ignore what appears to be a private argument.

He looks at the guy that Wilkes is challenging: blond, at least four or five inches taller than the banker. He's well-built, with the sort of chiselled jaw and good looks of some Hollywood actor.  The black tie suit looks good on him, but John can see from where he's standing how uncomfortable he is looking. He doesn't look angry, more red-faced with embarrassment. 

"Who are they?" Pete is swiping his tablet to get a list of the pod's attendees.

The waiter responds. "The dark haired guy is one of the Shad Sanderson bankers, not a regular, though. The other one is Vincent Heritage. Guest of honour; flew in this morning. From what I hear, one of those Californian start-up multimillionaires. The bank is listing the company on the stock exchange on Monday, and a shed-load of money is going to get made, if the American guys invited here by the bank are to be believed."

"Things seem to be heating up." Despite the music, John is now able to make out the yelling and it's getting louder. The big guy arguing with Wilkes has loosened his tie and is now looking seriously out of sorts.  _Probably more at home on some beach carrying a surfboard._

Wilkes steps closer to the blond man. "Vincent Heritage? What a joke! You sneak in under an alias; how lame is that?" Wilkes is laughing, with more than a bit of cruelty in his tone. "I hope the bank isn't backing you with any of our own money. You were a loser who hooked up with a freak back then, so why expect any difference now? God, Chloe was so right; once a tosser, always a tosser." To emphasise his point, he stabs a finger into the blonde's chest.

Discomfort turns to fury on the face of the millionaire.  Pete is in motion, with John not far behind just as the third guy, the MD that the waiter had referred to, literally steps in between Wilkes and the Californian.

" _Shut up_ , Wilkes. If you want to keep your job, you will apologise and leave immediately."

Startled by his boss's words, Wilkes steps back. "You're the one who invited me; not my fault that it was under false pretences." 

Ignoring Wilkes, the MD turns to the other man. "I'm sorry. I had no idea that you two had a history. I just thought that as a fellow graduate of Cambridge, you might have welcomed a familiar face."

The blond is not placated by the intervention. "I hated him at Cambridge, and I hate him now, but the difference is I couldn't do anything about it back then. Now I can—get rid of him or I swear I will call the whole damn thing off; if I'd known Wilkes worked for Shad Sanderson, I'd have picked any other bank."

John is startled by the accent in which this is delivered. Not American, but British, requiring him to adjust that mental image of a surfer.

The MD raises his hands in surrender. "Wilkes—Leave. _NOW!_ And don't bother to come in on Monday. You're fired. _"_

"What?! That's ridiculous. You can't do that. I'm the bloody director of trading… important to the bank, a major revenue earner!"

"Who just insulted the most important client this bank has seen for years. You're fired."  The Managing Director gestured over to where John and Pete are. "Remove this person, please."

"You'll hear from my lawyers about this, Bradstreet. Unfair dismissal is going to cost you big time. Don't think for one minute I'm going to take this lying down."

The MD shepherds Heritage off to the side of the bar, still apologising, from what John can hear.

Pete takes a hold of Sebastian's left elbow in a firm grip. "I am going to escort you from the premises, Mister Wilkes." 

For just a moment, he hesitates, but then shakes off Pete's grip and turns away towards the stairs. 

John steps back, hoping to get out of the light so he won't be recognised, but it's too late. As Sebastian strides past, he glances in John's direction and sees him.

"Bloody hell. What are _you_ doing here, Watson?"

He thinks quickly, "Moonlighting."

Sebastian laughs. "Yeah? Looks like anyone associating with Holmes is just as _screwed_ as ever."

While John's trying to figure out what that means, Peter waves his wrist at the door and he and Wilkes both disappear down the stairs. 

His headset crackles into life. "John…what's going on?"

"Just Wilkes being an arsehole. He just got fired and Pete's getting him out of the building."

"Good riddance. Now get back down here and let's see if we can stop a murder."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Darude is not a memory inducer just for Sherlock. This remarkable track by Finnish DJ has become an internet sensation, racking up a Gold Disc for a half million paid purchases, ten years after it debuted. The popularity of the "Sandstorm" as background music for those who stream their video gaming on the twitch platform led to a meme that any question asking for the name of any song was replied to with the comment "Darude – Sandstorm." As an April Fools' Day joke on 1 April 2015, YouTube displayed the message "Did you mean: Darude – Sandstorm by Darude" for all video search queries involving music, in addition to adding a button which played the tune during a video. Go find it at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y6120QOlsfU and join the nearly 150 MILLION views. Play it NOW so you can remember the scene in Extricate in Chapter 26 ( refresh your memory at https://archiveofourown.org/works/14504154/chapters/36383916)


	6. Performance

The next thirty minutes pass for Sherlock in a whirl of sound, light and dance. The DJ Guetta has been joined by another artist, a singer called Sia wearing an odd black and white wig, and the music heads into unfamiliar territory for him. Even with the headphone set in, he is starting to have real problems blocking the noise out, and it is interfering with keeping an eye on the movements of people on his target list. He keeps losing concentration and can't seem to keep a clear floorplan in his head. As the data on purchases shows up on the tablet device, he realises that some of the target individuals have drifted off to the White and Black Rooms. Surveillance on these he happily passes on to the security staff manning those rooms. The lighting is better in there and people are more stationary around the tables, making it harder for a hit-and-run type of murder.  A poisoning while eating would attract instant attention and narrow the suspect list to those at the same table or their server. Instinctively, he senses it isn't likely to happen there.

_Narrow it down._

The more vulnerable area is the dance floor. People are always on the move, and almost anonymous in the darkness. Unless they are buying drinks, their presence is not tracked. Dancers are easier targets—a stab in the dark, the touch of a poisoned needle unnoticed in the jostling of bodies, simple for a murderer to escape being spotted. That said, it is also harder to find a specific person amidst the heaving throng. It also makes it more likely that the murderer is a member who knows his victim at least by sight, rather than an employee whose presence on the dance floor would be very noticeable.

For that reason, his waiter's uniform means he's confined to watching from the side lines. Sherlock knows that the other vulnerability is when his targets disappear briefly into the iceboxes. Those frosted-glass cubicles give a privacy which tends to make him nervous. What goes on in there is behind closed doors, and anything could happen—including a murder.

He can see John on the other side of the dance floor and he, too, looks to be prowling the area near the iceboxes—they seem to have both realised that this is the weakness in the system. It shouldn't be so, because the system records entries and exits, but Sherlock is beginning to wonder if the system is as fool-proof as they think. Because these private places are pre-booked, it could be an ideal opportunity to know exactly when a victim is going to be in a particular place. The murderer might turn out to be one of the house tech guys who installed it or run it. Hacking or otherwise manipulating the IT system might be the best way to disguise a deadly appointment.

The incessant bass beat of the music is wearing him down, especially since the headache has returned with a vengeance. Sherlock can feel the temptation of the MDMA tablet in the pocket of his jumpsuit; a stimulant now might help push the arrival of another migraine back for a few more hours. _So might a cigarette_. As soon as that thought occurs to him, a nicotine craving takes hold. He moves away from the dancing to the back wall and consults his tablet device again. 

 _Brilliant._ One of his top five targets has just moved to the open-air terrace at the back of the warehouse. There is no smoking inside the club, but the designer of Chill had built a balcony onto the back of the building, overlooking the Thames. Shielded from rain by a glass canopy and heated by braziers, it gives members a legal chance to indulge in their nicotine addiction.

He touches the comms button on the headset. "I'm popping out to the balcony; want to keep an eye on Dermott McLean." Like a lot of journalists, the BBC's head of news is an inveterate smoker.

oOoOoOoOo

He tries not to notice how his hand cupping the lighter against the wind is shaking. Once the cigarette is alight, Sherlock takes a huge drag of it deep into his lungs and holds it there for a moment before slowly exhaling. His warm breath vaporises in the cold damp air over the Thames. The visual image ignites with the nicotine in his brain and hits the spot, eliciting an involuntary groan of pleasure.

There is an acknowledging chuckle from the woman standing beside him on the balcony.  She's not on his target list, so he can't immediately place a name to the face. He can't check because his headset is useless out here; the signal block around the building is quite effective. He deduces that she's something serious and professional, probably a corporate lawyer. Her sharp suit is a version of the black-tie dress code, but with just the right amount of feminine detail.

"You needed that."

He grunts an agreement, saving his breath as he takes another drag off the cigarette he'd cadged from her. Once the second hit starts to take effect, he can spare some air for a muttered "You have no idea."

"I haven't seen you before; are you new?"

"Yes."

"Then you may not know that staff aren't supposed to be out here."

"Nicotine addiction trumps house rules."

She laughs again. "I promise not to tell," taking a puff on her own cigarette.

The BBC man he is supposed to be keeping an eye on is further along the narrow balcony, holding forth on some political topic to another couple of members who Sherlock knows are senior civil servants, including the Permanent Secretary at the Department of Media, Culture and Sport. The balcony is small enough that he can just manage to overhear a few words: 'license fee' and 'public service broadcasting' seem to be featuring. _Boring._

His third drag on the cigarette is interrupted by the unexpected sound of a phone ringing. Not his; his is on mute but he'd feel the vibration through the pocket of this ridiculous jumpsuit. It's the lawyer's phone.

She laughs and pulls it out of her handbag. "Another one of my addictions, it seems. I come out here once an hour for a cig and a check of messages."

The comment lights a fuse in Sherlock's mind. Could a murderer take advantage of the fact that this is the only place in the whole club that a phone signal can be found? It would certainly solve the problem of getting someone in a specific location at a specific time.

He pulls his own phone out and says, "Excuse me… you've just reminded me of a call I need to make." He taps the second number listed on speed dial. When it's answered on the second ring, he asks bluntly: "Where are you now?"

"Bermondsey nick. About six minutes away. Need back-up?" Lestrade sounds eager.

"Not yet, but stand by. I think it could be soon."

He cuts the connection and takes another series of puffs on the cigarette, before glancing down at his phone again. _One Missed Call._

Swiping it open, Sherlock doesn't recognise the number. Few people have his number, so he is curious. He taps play.

" _Hello, Mister Holmes. Sorry to have missed you. This is Hilary Stafford calling from the Crown Prosecution Service. Mister Harrison Maddox QC and Tanya Sorrel need to brief you on your court appearance. Would Tuesday at 9.30 be possible? At our offices at 102 Petty France. Please get back to me as soon as possible on 020 3357 0899_. "

Suddenly, it all clicks into place, and it feels like a violent electrical jolt to his brain.

 _Stupid, stupid, stupid!_  

He's been a complete idiot. In his head, an Irish-accented voice boasts: ' _No one ever gets to me and no one ever will_ '. Tonight is not about extortion; it's an assassination! Maddox—a Gold member of Chill, present both last night and tonight—must be the chief prosecutor in Moriarty's trial. Before now, no details of the prosecution team have been made public. Secrecy had been deemed essential to protect those involved from becoming targets of his network. Yet somehow, the Irishman has set all this in motion from his prison cell and Sherlock is an idiot for missing it before. He flicks the nearly finished cigarette into the river and hits speed-dial. As soon as it's picked up, he shouts, "NOW!" and then ends the call, shouldering past the others on the balcony and running back into the club.

Once inside, he slaps the headset mic on. "Target identified—Harrison Maddox. Locate and protect." He'd left his tablet behind the bar when he'd gone for the smoke, so it's up to John and the rest of the team to find him and get there first.

As he makes his way to the bar area Sherlock is looking to the back of the room to catch John's eye.

Thankfully, security soon responds to his hail: "Icebox Three right."

Sherlock alters course, pushing people aside and shouting " _Move!_ " to clear a path straight across the dance floor towards the icebox closest to the stage. Out of the corner of his eye he can see John and Pete running up from the back of the room.

Before he can get there, the door of the frosted cubicle opens and a man comes out, followed close on his heels by a woman who is frantically trying to grab his arm. Even in a dim light punctuated by the overhead lasers and video, Sherlock can see that the man is staggering towards him, reaching out blindly and stumbling past the sofa area to the edge of the dance floor.

Sherlock shoves his way past a pair of oblivious dancers and grabs Maddox's shoulders just as his knees crumple and he starts to fall.  Lowering him gently, Sherlock shouts at the dancers to stand clear. Obligingly, a small circle of clear space forms around them as the music continues. Even in the dim light, Sherlock can see that Maddox is in a bad way. His face is contorted, black bowtie undone, collar awry and the buttons ripped open.

Sherlock leans down and yells to be heard over the music. "What happened, who did this to you?"

Eyelids sagging, the man lies there wholly unresponsive. The woman is on her knees beside her companion, and answers for him. "No one! It must be the drugs, he's just had a line, but it's never bothered him before!"

Pete and John are pushing their way through the dancers, and there's another two security officers bringing up the rear. Sherlock shouts into his headset microphone, "Control room, 999—medical emergency."

John drops to his knees beside the man, fingers already searching for the carotid pulse. He bends over Maddox's chest, putting his ear closer to the man's mouth. He catches Sherlock's eye and gives a tiny shake of his head, before pronouncing; "Barely breathing; airway's at least partially obstructed, judging by the inspiratory wheezing."

Next, John feels the neck muscles, then sticks his finger deep into the man's mouth. "He's not choked on anything. No gag reflex and he's drooling; can't swallow. Something's paralysed him; help me turn him into a recovery position before he aspirates saliva."

Maddox is pushed onto his side, his chest rising and falling far too fast—and then it stops moving at all.  "Shit. He's lost his airway. He needs to be intubated _now_!"

The woman is now sobbing. "Help him, for God's sake, _DO SOMETHING_!"

John pushes Maddox to lying on his back again and starts mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. After ten breaths, he takes a brief pause to put his fingers on the carotid again. He grunts. "Pulse erratic, weak; I don't think I'm getting much air in." Nevertheless, he pinches Maddox's nose with his fingers and resumes mouth-to-mouth.

Sherlock stands up, tells the control room to stop the music, that the police and ambulance would be arriving soon, and they will need to be directed into this area of the club quickly. Adrenaline has banished his headache, coursing through his veins together with a shot of cortisol, and the natural high obliterates anything but the task at hand. 

John's next check of Maddox's pulse yields no results, and he barks an order to Pete to rip open the man's shirt and to begin chest compressions while he continues the mouth-to-mouth, just as the lights go up and the music comes to an abrupt halt. The DJ has been startled into silence, tapping his microphone in confusion as an announcement comes over the PA system.

"Sorry for the interruption but there is a medical emergency on the dance floor. An ambulance is on its way. Could you please vacate the floor and make your way calmly to the sides of the room and wait in the seating areas. Those in the balconies, please remain where you are."

Sherlock orders the other security officer: "Go to Icebox Three and stand guard. Keep members away until the police get here. Where the hell is that ambulance?!"  He is forced to control his frustration by pacing. Finally, the doors at the back of the hall are thrown open, but it isn't a crew of EMTs, but rather the familiar figures of Lestrade and Donovan that come weaving their way through, with a number of uniformed officers behind.

Lestrade strides up, directing the officers to set up a cordon to keep the people back.  The balconies are lined with people leaning over to see what is going on.

The DI looks down at John and the security guard working on Maddox. "Still alive?"

John looks up at him during the brief pause in the 30:2 CPR rhythm and pants out a succinct "maybe". He's out of breath, and beckons the other security officer to take over the rescue breaths. At the briefing earlier that evening, Sherlock had asked Tiffany which employees had first aid training, and John remembers that all the security staff do.

"Ambulance wasn't far behind us; we could hear sirens," Lestrade says.

Sherlock looks down at the kneeling woman with a frown. "You said he took a line of coke. How long ago?"

She's crying and can't seem to focus on him, so he squats down between her and Maddox, yelling into her face: "You're a barrister; get a hold of yourself and answer the question!"

Stunned, she blurts out, "Just a few minutes before we came out; it shouldn't have taken effect so fast. It's never happened before. He only ever takes a single line; he's ever so careful."

"Routine, is it?!" He can't resist the dig; maybe John and Lestrade will realise that the occasional use is more commonplace than they'd like to think. If it's good enough for the CPS and half the people in the room, then why should he be singled out?

When she nods, he stands and says to Lestrade, "Tell the Forensic officer to wear a hazmat suit when he goes into the cubicle. What he's had is _not_ cocaine."

Tiffany comes running onto the floor, heading for them, with two uniformed ambulance crew behind her. She takes one look at Maddox and closes her eyes.  "Bloody hell, Holmes, this is what you were supposed to _prevent_!"

One of the EMTs—a woman in her forties—kneels down and says to John who has taken over chest compressions from the first security guy, "We'll take over now."

A bit winded, John can only nod and then scramble off the unresponsive victim, as she re-starts compressions. She asks,"How long have you been giving CPR?"

John looks uncertain, so Sherlock answers for him, "Twelve minutes."

The other crewman opens his kit and pulls out a portable oxygen tank and connects it via tubing to a facemask and ambu bag which he fits it over the man's mouth and nose, taking over ventilation.

"I'm a doctor, a former trauma surgeon and now a GP," John explains as he reaches into the EMT's uniform chest pocket and grabs a penlight. He lifts first one eyelid, then the other, shining the light into the pupils. "Fixed and unreactive. How's the ventilation?"

The EMT looks up, "Chest rising symmetrically, no significant counter-pressure."

"Good, good," John mutters. He then looks at Sherlock, running his hand nervously through his hair as they shift their gazes to watch the frantic attempts to revive Maddox. "Loss of muscle tone when he coded must have eliminated the obstruction. We'll need to intubate, but let's check rhythm first," he calls out louder.

In between the ventilation stages of the CPR cycles, the EMT by the patient's head places a portable dual defibrillator and vitals monitor on the floor and passes John the electrode patches. John attaches them to Maddox's bare chest and then hastily plugs in the wire to the defibrillator. "Rhythm check! Stop compressions." A moment passes, during which everyone's eyes are glued to the nearly horizontal line on the monitor.

"Asystole, resume compressions," John commands, and dives into the EMTs medicine pack, telling the medical crew. 

The female EMT nods and instructs Pete to take over chest compressions, so she can start an IV while John draws up adrenaline. One milligram is injected, then flushed with saline as CPD continues.

"Twenty minutes of CPR," Sherlock informs John, who curses, but nods.

The next rhythm check after a minute and a half shows asystole again. Two more two-minute cycles are completed with a second dose of adrenaline administered four minutes after the first. One more rhythm check, one more study of the monotone line on the monitor.

John stands up and shares an apologetic look with Sherlock, before announcing: "Terminate CPR." His next words are directed to the victim's companion: "Sorry; he's gone."

The barrister cries out in denial. "No, no… He _can't_ be dead!"

There is a horrified murmur from the crowd of members who have been watching from a distance.

Tiffany strides over to where Sherlock is pacing and grabs him by the shoulder, her anger giving her a strength that surprises him. "You were supposed to stop this murder from happening!"

He ducks out of her grasp and steps back. "This isn't about you, or the club. It's _bigger_ ," he spits out angrily.

Lestrade closes the gap between him and Sherlock. "What do you mean?"

"The extortion was nothing but a smoke-screen. The victim is the head of the Crown Prosecution team on Moriarty's trial."

"How do you know that? _Nobody_ knows that. The names are being kept secret."

"I just got a message calling me to an appointment next week, to be briefed by this man." Sherlock points at Maddox's body. "This is an assassination, pure and simple, designed to make a point, and Moriarty is pulling the strings."

"Fucking hell, Sherlock. The man is _locked up in Belmarsh_!"

He laughs. "And you think that is enough? This is only the beginning, Lestrade."

The DI rubs his head. "You think it was the drugs? Someone tampered with them?" He's looking suspiciously at the woman kneeling beside the body, with tears streaming down her face.

"Not her." Sherlock puts as much distain as he can in his tone. "That's Tanya Sorrel. She's a barrister on the same team."

Sally Donovan is looking at the crowd around the edges of the dance floor and up at the balconies. "Witnesses? Suspects? A lot of people to be interviewed, Guv; we're going to need more officers."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Don't bother. It's none of them. In fact, Miss Selvedge, you can send everyone home now—members, staff; it doesn't matter. We have their names and details already on the system, their movements in the club have been recorded should anyone care, which I don't, because none of them are involved. No one will have seen anything, because there was nothing to see. The man's cocaine was doctored before he ever got here."

Tiffany nods, "Not our responsibility then, thank God." She looks at Lestrade and asks "Is it okay to let people leave?"

"You're sure about this, Sherlock?"

He waves his hand dismissively. "Yes, just clear the room," and resumes his pacing. 

The officers and the club's security staff start herding people out. Tiffany goes to the back of the room to stand by the doors, offering words of encouragement to the members, re-directing them to the dining rooms.

Sherlock stops to look at the stage, then turns slowly, taking in the the audience filing its way through the doors at the back.  He brings his hands together under his chin.

"All the world's a stage, and I am but a poor player," he whispers.

"What?" Lestrade's face is telling him that he doesn't get the Shakespearean reference.

Sherlock slowly spins around, pointing up at the balconies. "A theatre and I've just unwittingly played the lead role."

"Sherlock… what are you talking about?"

"Think it through! A club member apparently overdoses on drugs, staggers out onto the dance floor and dies. The rest of the members tut and say _oh dear_ , but it means nothing to them, not really. The poor unfortunate is carted away and the dancing resumes. But make it into a _murder_ … complete with a celebrity detective on the scene to attract everyone's attention, and suddenly it's a message."

He spins around in frustration, to stare back at the body. "He's just a prop, an important one, but it's me telling the audience that he's been murdered—that's been the whole point of this pantomime."

He resumes pacing. This is so typical of Moriarty and, for just a moment, the total brilliance of it takes his breath away. In the next instance, the feeling is replaced by the first really visceral fear he's had since he started his whole single-handed plan to take Moriarty's network apart at the seams. 

 _I'm in over my head._ Sherlock realises he may not win this battle. Moriarty is smarter than he is, as just proven. _A powerful message, indeed._  

"What the hell could act that fast?" John has sat down on a barstool and is watching him. He's just finished helping the EMT complete the Diagnosis of Death form that has to be filled in before they can release the body to the police for forensic examination.

"It's _obvious,_ John _._ What's his weapon of choice? He's used it not once but twice before.  Third time it's to prove a point, leave his signature on the crime."

"Oh! Clostridium botulinum… that makes sense. It blocks acetylcholine, leading to flaccid muscle paralysis starting at the head and neck, leading to ADR and death. But, Sherlock, it doesn't work that fast."

He stops pacing and looks at John. "Botulinum toxin used to come in seven varieties, each of which has its own signature, and they could be treated by a dose of the right antibodies if you caught it early enough. Not this time. When the analysis is done, it will tell us that this was Botulinum H—the eighth variety, a new version, no known antidote. Synthetic manufacture, a toxin so deadly that simply sniffing it at a dose of two billionths of a gram can kill in a minute or two."

"I've never heard of it."

"You wouldn't have. The gene sequence is so secret that the US authorities withheld it from publication and confiscated the product*. It would be just like Moriarty to be able to get his hands on it and use it tonight. He's thumbing his nose at me."

John takes that in, and then turns to the EMT. "You need to take this woman in to be checked, tested. If she's been exposed…"

Sherlock snorts. "If she'd inhaled any, she'd be dead by now."

"Sherlock…."  He says it in that voice of his that is supposed to be signifying his disapproval.

"This is more than a bit _not good_ , John. I have no doubt that in this room there were at least a half dozen of Moriarty's Fallen Angels, and this message will have been received by them, loud and clear.  The moment one of the witnesses gets out the door and gets a phone signal, it's going to be breaking news on every website, so the whole of the world gets the message. Let's not forget, too, that it is also obviously aimed at _me._ "

Lestrade and John are both giving him a startled look, but then John's attention wanders to something behind him.

That doesn't slow the sound Sherlock has now picked up, that of firm strides—fine leather shoes striking a rhythm across the dance floor.

When they come to a stop behind him, a voice quietly calls out: "Turn around, Sherlock, and tell me what you see."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * This is true. Botulinum toxin H was discovered in 2012, and reported in the Journal of Infectious Diseases. After consultations with the infectious disease laboratory at the U.S. Army, the Department of Homeland Security, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC), and several other health departments, the authors were persuaded to not publish the gene sequence, as the H variety was so lethal in such tiny doses that it could become a terrorist weapon.  
> My browser history sometimes scares me.
> 
> and the medical realism in this chapter is courtesy of the incomparable @JBaillier, my enthusiastic beta who has been contributing editor and major cheerleader for this story.


	7. Surprise

**_Rewind one minute…_ **

Having been unable to save Harrison Maddox, John can't quite believe how blasé Sherlock is being about how the barrister might have been exposed to the botulinum. He glares, one of those cautioning looks that the Consulting Detective often needs to keep his bluntness in check.

To no affect, as Sherlock misses his point entirely. "This is more than a bit _not good_ , John. I have no doubt that in this room there were at least a half dozen of Moriarty's Fallen Angels, and this message will have been received by them, loud and clear. It is also obviously aimed at _me_ , too _._ "

Before he can reply, John's attention gets distracted by a commotion going on behind Sherlock—one of the officers trying to stop a member from entering the crime scene.  He watches as the man ignores the call to stop and strides across the floor. John recognises him; it's the guy from the Pod, the one who got in the altercation with Wilkes. 

The bank's client stops a few feet behind Sherlock and then says, "Turn around, Sherlock, and tell me what you see." Instead of a taunt from an enemy or a delighted greeting from an old friend, it's said quietly; John finds the tone hard to interpret. Clearly, this is a message meant only for Sherlock—such an unusual attempt at intimacy in the middle of a crowd.

Sherlock is still facing John as this is said, and John watches as his friend's eyes widen. A myriad of subtle expressions—shock, pain… is that _fear?_ —flit across his face, really too fast for John to decipher. The vulnerable look that settles on Sherlock's features is so unexpected and different from the usual arrogant set to his expression that John gets to his feet, taking an instinctive step forward. _If Wilkes knew this guy from Cambridge, then Sherlock might, too, and that shocked reaction doesn't suggest that the memories are pleasant_.  Protectively, John reaches out, trying to get his friend's attention to see what he should do. But, his deductions have taken too long. Sherlock doesn't see the hand, because he is already turning around.

" _Victor…"_ Sherlock's voice is pitched higher than normal.

John's confused by what he's hearing, blurting out, "No, that's _Vincent_ … Vincent Heritage."

Ignoring him, Sherlock reaches a tentative hand forward. "How are you _here?"_   This is breathed in an astonished wonder. "You're… _real."_ His voice cracks on this last word, as if he cannot quite believe it.

The tall blonde closes the gap between them and buries his left hand in the black curls at the nape of Sherlock's neck. He uses his right hand to cup Sherlock's chin, tilting it gently up. He then leans down and kisses Sherlock.

John is so shocked that he's sure his mouth drops open in astonishment.

For a split second, he sees Sherlock stiffen in surprise and then, unbelievably, John watches him just _melt_ into the embrace.  Vincent— _Victor?—_ drops his hand from Sherlock's neck to the small of his back, using his other arm to envelope him in an embrace that is returned with equal fervour.  John watches in amazement as the man's hand slides further down, splaying his fingers across the black jumpsuit to rest possessively on Sherlock's arse. John has always thought of Sherlock as a tall man, but the blond has at least four inches on him in height and is more substantially built. In their close embrace they are a study in contrasts; Sherlock a lean form, dark-curled, pale and willowy to Victor's muscular frame, tanned complexion, and sun-kissed blond hair.

The kiss deepens as Sherlock drops his hands around Victor's— _or Vincent's_? John is still confused—waist, pulling them even closer together, chest-to-chest, groin-to-groin, entwined in an embrace that leaves nothing to the imagination about how well and how _exactly_ they know each other.

Anyone watching this would feel like an intruder. Yet, John cannot look away from the most astounding and yes, stirring sight he has witnessed in years. What's going on would be bold, outrageously blatant, if the two people involved didn't look as though the rest of the world has just disappeared from view. The fact that this is _Sherlock_ , who is actually _reciprocating_ , stuns John into silence.

One of the EMTs lets out a low wolf whistle, which jolts him out of his daze. Glancing over at Lestrade, John can see that the DI is equally astonished. One person isn't: Sally Donovan is now laughing and starts a slow handclap of approval as she crows, "Never knew you had it in you, Holmes."

Out of those watching, Greg recovers first. He strides over to the two and says firmly, "Sherlock! Need I remind you that this is a crime scene? A _murder_ scene, to boot!"

It's as if he hadn't spoken. If anything, Sherlock tightens the embrace, and from where he is standing, John suspects that tongues may well now be involved in the kiss. His brows hitch halfway to the ceiling and he licks his lower lip in utter bewilderment.

" _SHERLOCK!"_ Lestrade yells this right into the man's ear.

It has the desired effect, but not on its intended target. It is the taller of the two who loosens his grip and breaks off the kiss. His hands slip down to Sherlock's arms and he steps back, releasing him. His blue eyes do not leave Sherlock's.

There is the faintest of sounds from Sherlock, a breathy whimper of protest at their separation. His gaze tracks Victor, who retreats, moving towards the queue of members filing out of the room at the back.

"It's okay," Victor calls out to him. "I'll wait." He turns back, gives Sherlock a dazzling smile, then strides away. Is there some new confidence in the set of those broad shoulders?

John finds his voice again. "Who the _hell_ is he?"

Sherlock seems lost in a reverie, but eventually answers, "Not Vincent Heritage… an alias. Victor Trevor is his real name. I knew him at Cambridge." He is touching his fingers to his lower lip, as if not quite believing what had just happened. His tone is distracted, eyes still following the retreating figure of this Victor, Vincent, whatever.

To John's eyes, Lestrade looks like he's torn between worrying and laughing.

Sally butts in with, "Yeah, I think we could all see just how well you knew him. He get off on corpses, too?"

Sherlock turns to her and frowns. "Don't you have something important to do? Like interviewing Miss Sorrel? She should be able to help you identify the source of the poisoned drugs." His usual brand of venom towards Donovan is absent. He sounds almost… civil, and it just might be even more alarming that what John has just witnessed.

_What the hell is going on?_

Lestrade nods. "Donovan, he's got a point."

"Guv…"

"Go on, just do as he says."

She rolls her eyes in disgust but leaves the three men standing together.

As soon as she's far enough away not to overhear, Greg asks, "You okay, Sherlock?"

The question clearly puzzles Sherlock who replies, "Yes, of course. Why shouldn't I be?" The words are fired off with nonchalant precision. Automated. Rehearsed.

"Well, excuse me, but a public display like that… You got to admit it's not your style, is it?"

Whatever answer Sherlock might have given isn't forthcoming, as the Forensic team comes barrelling though the double doors with Anderson in the lead. John curses under his breath, and he leans towards Lestrade. "Just what we need."

Lestrade points a warning forefinger at Sherlock. "You, _behave_. On second thought, just stay here," the DI says hastily as he hurries over to brief the arriving technicians. 

Sherlock wanders away, moving closer to the stage. He soon adopts his usual Consulting Detective stance, hands steepling below his chin, deep in thought.

John glances towards where Lestrade had headed and notices Anderson already craning his neck towards the body. Before his friend's ritual battle with Anderson begins anew, John needs a word, so he steps closer. "Sherlock… what was that?"

"What?"

" _THAT!_ You _know_ what I am talking about."

"No, I don't."

The blatant lie makes John exasperated enough to snap, "Yeah, you bloody well do."

Two wrinkles appear between Sherlock's eyebrows. "Irrelevant."

"Not in my book, it isn't."

"Well, close that book and focus on the crime scene. Need I remind you that we're _working_ , that this is what we are here for?"

The full-on snark is back, and John senses that whatever had just happened is not something Sherlock wants to discuss. _Tough._   "I'm not the one who was exploring another guy's tonsils a minute ago. Who _is_ he?"

"Someone I used to know, not relevant to this case."  To forestall any further questioning, Sherlock walks off across the dance floor to where Lestrade and Donovan are also leading Anderson and his forensic team. 

Marching in step behind, John is not ready to dismiss this. Sherlock has turned just about every assumption he's ever made about the man upside down. It's not something he can ignore on demand.

Sherlock launches into a technical explanation, aimed at the forensic man clambering into a hazmat suit. "Botulinum H—hazardous beyond belief. You'll need to be wearing a breathing apparatus. It's not contagious, but it is lethal if inhaled or ingested. The body will have to be treated accordingly in the mortuary, too."

John looks down at his hands, and registers a fact. "Sherlock… I've just given mouth-to-mouth to the victim."

That makes Sherlock spin around and face him, a look of startled concern taking hold. "I didn't think of that…"

"Nor did I; medical instincts just kicked in."

"Well, like with Miss Sorrel, as you aren't dead yet, then we have to assume that you've avoided exposure. Thankfully, you were exhaling _into_ the body, not inhaling his breath." There is a pause, during which Sherlock takes a step closer.  "But best be sure. Go wash your hands because you pinched his nose. You should go with her to the A&E at Guy's Hospital; take the EMTs with you; all of you need to get checked." 

 _He's trying to get rid of me._   John walks over to the EMT's medical kit bag, rummages in it for a hand sanitiser wipe. Once it's open, he uses in in his right hand to scrub vigorously his left. "Nope, they should go by all means, but as you quite rightly say, I'm not dead yet and we've got other things to do."

Lestrade is loitering, and now interjects, "Speaking of which, what do you think Forensics should focus on? Come on, Sherlock, this is your crime scene—do your thing."

Sherlock turns and takes in Anderson standing beside the DI. "There's nothing to focus on. No fingerprints, blood spatter, hair or fibre will matter at all; no matter how badly Anderson mishandles the scene, it won't matter. The only clues as to the murderer will be found on the body, at the Crown Prosecution Service, or Maddox's home. There's no reason to bother here."

Anderson snorts. "Don't tell me my job, Freak. Whatever you may think, there are protocols to follow on any crime scene."

"Go ahead, Anderson. Waste police time and money if that's what you want. Just don't expect me to waste mine."

Lestrade is giving Sherlock the eye; he seems to sense the evasion going on, too. "In a hurry to leave, are you?"

"Little point in dawdling, is there?"

"Don't you want to go to Maddox's flat? We could do that tonight. A warrant won't take long; could probably find a judge in one of those dining rooms, if we look."

"I'll leave that to the _experts_ ," Sherlock snaps. "If you find anything to link to Moriarty I shall be very surprised. He's made his point, and the identity of who he's got to do his dirty work for him became largely irrelevant after the assassination. I couldn't really care less about whatever little details you and Anderson manage to scrape together." He starts to move towards the staff door, turning just enough to say in a loud voice. "Big picture, that's what this is all about."

John hurries to catch up to him. "Sherlock, where are you going?"

"Locker room to change out of this ridiculous jumpsuit. You should go outside and call us a cab; there's no mobile signal inside the club." 

oOoOoOoOoO

It's been almost twenty minutes since John had stood outside the warehouse and phoned for a taxi. He knows that Sherlock would have been able to change his clothes in half that time, so he's getting a bit fidgety, as is the cab driver.

The red intercom button goes on. "How much longer, mate?"

John shrugs and raises his hands in a gesture of futility.

"Meter's running, but sitting here is getting on my wick."

He's not the only one. As soon as the taxi had turned up at the front door of the club, and John had climbed in the back, the driver had started to move off.  When he was told he had to wait for a second passenger, the cabbie had said, "Tell your date she'll have to walk down to the end of the street here. Double yellow lines and the local residents get the meter guys out here every night if anyone hangs about. Club's rented the Angel's car park after the pub closes so cars can wait there." 

That's where they are now, parked fifty meters from the club's front door along with at least a dozen other cars and limos. Luckily, John can see down the street, so should be able to spot Sherlock when he gets out. There's been a steady stream of people walking down to meet the cars but not enough to account for the whole membership; it's obvious that some must still be inside, decamped to the Black and White Rooms perhaps. Has Sherlock been held up by the club owner wanting a more thorough explanation? Or, maybe there is a new development in the case? In either case, he wouldn't be able to text John.

There is one more possibility, one John doesn't want to think about because it would mean that Sherlock hasn't learned the lesson that John really doesn't appreciate being tricked or lied to. _Wasn't Baskerville bad enough?_ Just when his patience is at an end and he's about to abandon the cab and go back to the club, John spots the familiar figure striding down towards the cars. The Belstaff is swinging at each step, and John spots the red ember of a burning cigarette. _So that's what held him up._ There will be a few choice words. Irritated but also relieved John tells their driver, "That's him."

The cabbie flicks his lights, and Sherlock alters course, coming up to the window of the taxi. He gestures for it to be wound down, which the man does. 

"Take him to 221b Baker Street on my account—Sherlock Holmes," he pronounces and then starts to walk away.

John gets the passenger door open as fast as he can and yells after him. "Oi, where are you going?"

"I've got other plans, John. Don't wait up." Without looking back or slowing down to hear John's reply, Sherlock carries on down the line of parked cars and stops at a black limo. A chauffeur is out holding the back door open for him. He disappears into the car, leaving John open-mouthed and fuming.

The cabbie is laughing. "Stood you up then, mate? Get in and I'll take you home."


	8. Reconsideration

**_Rewind ten minutes…._ **

Waiting in the limo, Victor is attempting to process what has just happened, and to anticipate the consequences.

Topmost on his mind is the shock. _What are the odds?_ London has a population of eight million people, for Christ's sake! When he'd finally decided to sneak into London under an assumed name, there shouldn't have been a chance in hell of bumping into Sherlock—after all, that was one thing Victor actively needed to _avoid_.

At least in theory, that is. He'd planned to spend Saturday and Sunday trying to reinforce that determination—prove to himself that he could be in London and _not_ succumb to the temptation.  But, fate—a concept Sherlock would be the first to scoff at—has had other ideas. Victor is reminded of that line in Casablanca: ' _Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world…_ ' and he's walked into the very one that happened to have Sherlock in it.

Solving a crime, no less. Victor had been one of those lining the balcony as the scene had unfolded: the stricken man going down, the tall waiter instantly arriving at the scene, then the appearance of a security guy who seemed to know exactly what to do to try to save him. When the music stopped, and the house lights came up, Victor had been utterly stunned by the realisation that it was Sherlock and presumably Doctor Watson, whose blog is Victor's guilty and religious reading pleasure. Victor knows Sherlock well enough that he'd recognise him from any angle, but the final seal was hearing _that_ voice, the one he's been waiting to hear for more than a decade. Victor had been utterly transfixed, watching with growing delight as Sherlock commanded the scene: the security staff, then the police and the ambulance crews—everyone had deferred to the man who had all the answers. It was like he was the sun and the others just moved in orbits around him, trying to keep up with the quicksilver mind that had always been half a dozen steps in front of them.

Leaning over the balcony, Victor couldn't take his eyes off of Sherlock. The form-fitting waiter's uniform fit him like a glove, showing how the boy he had known had grown into a man he'd only seen in photographs or video clips—none of which did justice to the tall, lean perfection and the sheer energy of the now adult Sherlock in full flow. The lanky awkwardness is gone; in its stead is now a cold, commanding presence. The contrast is stark to the Sherlock he had known and loved in private, but the sight had instantly brought back memories of a twenty-year-old boy standing in front of the wall in Jack Trevor's study, showing the evidence that turned Victor's world completely upside down. His father's prediction—that Sherlock would make a fine detective—had been laughed off back then by the chemistry student. Wrapped up in grief and shell-shocked by the relentless barrage of family secrets being revealed, Victor had dismissed those fledgling abilities as well, only to find months later and half way around the world from Cambridge that the truth had been deduced correctly.

 _Too late._ That truth had cost Victor more than his family—it had cost him _everything_. It's the story of how he lost Sherlock, and it's one he doesn't want to recall right now. _Can't afford to dwell on the past when still reeling from the present._

Sitting alone in the dark in the back of the limo, he has to squeeze his eyes shut and take a few deep breaths. He can't bear to think that if he screws this up again, he will lose the second chance that fate has dropped into his lap. _Will he come?_

At first, all those years ago he had been certain that Sherlock would get in touch when he was on the mend. Alone in a foreign country, struggling to make sense of his new, demanding studies and trying to settle in, the thought had been Victor's lifeline until that day in January when he'd phoned Doctor Esther Cohen to get the monthly update on Sherlock's progress in rehab.

 _'I'm sorry_ ,' Doctor Cohen had said to him on the phone. _'I'm sorry, Victor, I truly am.'_ She'd sent back an unopened envelope. _Return to sender; addressee unknown_ had been scrawled in a familiar handwriting on the unopened envelope. Inside had been Victor's letter and his journal of the journey down under, trying to find the answers to the questions that Sherlock had raised months before. The psychiatrist had made it clear that it was Sherlock's own choice; he wanted no further contact. Remembering the pain of that day is something that he's done many times over the years, but now it stabs him like a knife, making Victor re-think his rashness tonight.

What does it mean, then, the way he had just now been received? Sherlock could have taken one look at him and walked away.

Victor hadn't meant to reveal himself, but his reaction to the sight of Sherlock in the flesh had caught him completely by surprise. When the security people had said it was okay to leave, the Shad Sanderson crew were all for doing so and taking the American investors with them, heading off to another night club. Victor had made his jet lag excuses and sent Steve Greene and Tim Macdonald off to keep them amused. Despite telling himself over and over to _stick with the plan_ , once down on the dance floor level, Victor had stopped for one last look at Sherlock. Until then, he'd thought he could sneak out with the crowd and go back to the flat; he couldn't, _wouldn't_ let this derail everything.

That one last look had been enough to break every resolve he'd ever had, and set him in motion towards Sherlock. He felt reckless, helplessly pulled closer.

The kiss had been utterly spontaneous.

As he'd walked over to where Sherlock was standing, he'd not had the slightest thought of doing that, but when he'd turned around, and Victor looked into those amazing blue-green eyes again, nothing and no one else mattered. What he saw shining in those eyes was hurt and longing in equal measure, but mixing with more things, more complicated things than he had time to parse. But, for a moment, Sherlock's face had shown such vulnerability that something seemed to break apart in Victor and he'd moved without hesitation. As soon as he put a hand on Sherlock, they were pulled into each other, as though thirteen years and an ocean between them had never happened.

The euphoria of their reunion— _God, on a dance floor, of all the places_ — had lasted until Victor got out of the warehouse and took his first deep breath of crisp, sobering London night air. Walking out of the club, he'd felt triumphantly intoxicated by the recklessness of his actions but now, he's beginning to realise what a spectacle he had inadvertently staged. To the other people in the room, it must have seemed an incredibly blatant act, a statement of a past relationship that Sherlock might have preferred to keep quiet. What right had Victor to march in and potentially change _everything_ , just like that? The stunned looks on the faces of the police officers and the crime scene people, and especially John Watson's jaw-dropping astonishment, all suggest that what he'd done must have come as an utter surprise. 

Now that the adrenaline rush of seeing his lover— _boyfriend, partner, ex, nothing really fits, does it?—_ again is dissipating, Victor is panicking. How much time does he still have to reconsider the wisdom of what he's done? He has absolutely no idea how much those present at the crime scene know about Sherlock's private life. Watson had been clearly gobsmacked. _Shit._ Victor realises that just reading that blog doesn't mean that he knows much about Sherlock's current private life. If Watson and Sherlock are in a relationship as some of the gossip columns keep suggesting, has his impulsive behaviour caused a relationship crisis and, most importantly, wrecked any chance of Sherlock wanting to see Victor again?

The privacy screen between him and the driver starts to roll down and the man asks, "Excuse me, sir. Do you know how long we will be waiting? I should inform the company of any delay."

Victor's tempted to answer that he's been waiting for years, so a few more minutes won't hurt. Instead, he manages a smile. "We wait until I know whether or not there will be another passenger. Until then, we just sit tight."

Minutes pass, which is not doing any favours to Victor's nerves. What if Sherlock has left, and all his stunt has achieved is a phone call to Mycroft Holmes to request his prompt removal from the UK? It had been hard enough to decide that the trip was necessary, despite what restrictions had been placed on his presence in Britain by the older Holmes. He might have been a young, inexperienced start up-entrepreneur thirteen years ago, but Mycroft had made sure Victor was aware of the damage that a private investor with ten percent of GeneTAC could do if he'd found that the terms of that original investment have been broken. Victor had been banking on the fact that, by the time the flotation news got out that he had been in London, his plane would already be airborne, so Mycroft might be willing to relent, especially since his visit would have earned the man millions.

In any case, how much damage could the elder Holmes even do? The plan had been to prove to Mycroft that Victor could do business in London without breaking the terms of their business agreement that he never again contacted Sherlock. If Mycroft wanted to sell his stake in a fit of pique after learning Victor had visited the UK, then at least after the shares went public, there would be other buyers. It had been a calculated risk Victor had been willing to take.

Now, all that's gone out the window. He's put himself at the mercy of someone who wouldn't even read his letter all those years ago. Will the years have changed Sherlock's mind? The kiss suggests it's possible, but Victor feels like his future is on a knife edge

Cars come and go. The club members are well instructed; they meet their drivers and pre-booked taxis in an orderly fashion. A few Uber cars pick up passengers, but they don't like to wait so the Angel pub's carpark is filled with taxis and chauffeur-driven cars.

Then, Victor catches sight of a pedestrian coming up the road, one he recognises even in the dark. The walk may be more confident now than it had been when they were university students, but there is something in it that Victor will never forget. As Sherlock passes under the pool of light cast by a street lamp, Victor recognises the coat that has been worn in so many of the photos he's collected on his hard drive over the past three years. It's a longer model than the sort of coats he had favoured as a student but at this age, Sherlock seems to like the attention it brings him.

Sherlock's stride hesitates for a split second before his path deviates to a taxi parked nearby. He gestures for the cabbie to roll his window down, and Victor does the same, wanting to hear what's said.

"Take him to 221b Baker Street on my account." After giving his name, Sherlock is in motion again, stepping back to the kerb and heading towards the limo.

His heart leaping at the sight, Victor knocks on the privacy window. "It's him. Quick, open the door."

Victor spots that the passenger in the back of the cab has opened the door; it's John Watson, who yells after Sherlock: "Oi, where are you going?"

"I've got other plans, John. Don't wait up." Sherlock doesn't turn to look back at the doctor, and nor do his steps slow down. He strides up to the limo's open door and slides onto the leather seat beside Victor. 

Like someone parched in a desert, Victor drinks in the sight. This is no mirage. "I was starting to think you wouldn't come _,_ " he comments in a wondrous tone.  "This is actually happening. I can hardly believe it." Reaching out, he gives a gentle stroke of his finger along the line of a cheekbone he's missed for so long.

Before Sherlock can react, there is a whirr of electric window, making Victor withdraw his hand. The privacy screen drops fractionally. "Excuse me, sir, but do you have a destination in mind?"

 _The nearest bedroom_ is the answer that pops, unbidden, into Victor's mind, as Sherlock answers, "The Dorchester Hotel. Take a scenic route."

Victor gives him a questioning look, to which Sherlock gives a tiny shake of his head. Only after the screen is back up does he turn to look at Victor. "Which hotel are you staying at?"

"I'm not. That is, not at a hotel. I'm borrowing the flat of a friend of a friend. No way to trace it to me."

"Or to Vince Heritage?"

He shakes his head.

"Have you got a phone? Is it in your name, or Heritage's? Can I see it?"

 _What is this, twenty questions?_ "Yes, no, no, and yes in that order." Victor digs the phone out of his jacket pocket and hands it over. "I got Steve Greene—a banker who came with me—to get me a burner."

Sherlock's questions don't stop. "Does the driver know the address of that flat?"

"No, we came to Chill from the bank, which organised this limo. They don't know the flat address, either."

This answer gets a knowing smile. "You are trying hard to stay under Mycroft's radar, aren't you?"

"Seemed a sensible precaution, given he's the one who told me never to set foot in the UK again. He's not _still_ following you, is he?" he adds, somewhat incredulously.

Sherlock's eyes are down on the screen; he's looking up something on the phone, swiping quickly. "Amongst others."

Victor is shocked, and blurts out: "But why? Why would you let him?"

"You know as well as I do that he hardly requires consent for his actions. The same reason he snooped back in Cambridge still applies, only now significantly magnified. And, he's not the only one; I'm in a dangerous line of business. Not all the eyes on me are unfriendly, but it pays to err on the side of caution after tonight–– _especially_ tonight."

Victor licks his lower lip. "Is this something to do with the guy that just died?"

"What could you hear from the balcony?" Sherlock is still looking at the phone screen.

"Something to do with that Moriarty, the one who robbed the Crown Jewels?"

Sherlock looks up but not at him—he seems to be thinking hard and fast. Finally, he nods sharply, before resuming whatever he is doing on the phone.  "' _The most dangerous criminal mind the world has ever known_ ', according to Mycroft. I was due to give testimony at the trial, after being briefed by the man who was just murdered."

"Shit." The involuntary curse escapes before Victor can stop it.

"Precisely. I'm just making sure that… certain people learn about it from me, before the press goes wild." He starts typing away, thumbs flying with a precision that makes Victor smile.

"You and your phones…" He laughs. The flood of affection over the sight is sudden and totally intoxicating.

 _It's him. It's really him._ _Right here, right now._

"An essential piece of armament in the fight against crime these days…"  Sherlock taps the send button and then starts typing again. This time, it's a shorter message; when he's done, he holds the screen up to show Victor:

**01.48     Going to be off grid for a while. Don't look for me.   LS**

"Who or what is LS?"

Sherlock's lip quirks up again. "You're not the only one to use an alias, you know."

"So, that's not to Mycroft?"

"No. Someone else."

"Watson?"

That little wrinkle of confusion that Victor knows so well, one he had traced with his fingertips many times, appears between Sherlock's eyebrows. "Why would I text him? I just spoke to him."

 _There_. Victor's raised it, so he's going to have to ask and hope that he doesn't end up regretting it. "How upset is he going to be by you being with me tonight?"

"Why would he care?"

Victor stifles an incredulous laugh. Sherlock's social naivety and literal thinking clearly hasn't abated over the past decade. "Well, it's a relationship thing; maybe he'd be pissed because being confronted by an ex-boyfriend can cause a current holder of that title to get upset."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "We're not in a _relationship_ , as you call it. We share a flat and work together. He is frequent in his declarations that he's not gay—a fact he never hesitates to announce loudly to anyone. You shouldn't believe everything you read in a newspaper," Sherlock says dismissively.  

 _Oh._ Victor is surprised, and then tries to understand why, given he's never actually met John Watson. "Well, I've read his blog, and the way he writes about you… He clearly adores you; it's there in every single post."

Sherlock snorts. "He loves the life we lead—solving cases, chasing criminals, the adrenaline high of it all. He's an ex-Army doctor who's swapped one battlefield for another. Anyway, I don't think he feels the need for a long-term entanglement; Three Continents Watson continues his career as a serial dater of women."

Victor feels incredulous at how easily they are talking about this, how… _agreeable_ Sherlock is being. It doesn't quite fit with their sudden split and brutal alienation all those years ago. Then again, discussing work and making sure they're not followed must be keeping Sherlock in work mode. _Perhaps it's best to keep it that way until we're truly alone_.

As the limo turns southwards, away from Tower Bridge, Sherlock turns the phone off and then opens the back and removes the SIM card, handing both back to Victor, who grins. "That's like something in a bad spy film."

Sherlock shrugs, but is smiling back. "Welcome to my world."

"So, why the Dorchester?"

"Just the first stop. Remember how we shook off Mycroft's minions last time? Think of this as the adult version."  
 

oOoOoOoOoOo

 

**_Meanwhile, in a taxi not all that far away…._ **

_This just takes the fucking biscuit_.

John is seething with rage. First, Sherlock lets him put his life at risk trying to resus a patient who has been poisoned, and then that patient _dies_ , then the idiot ends up _kissing_ some bloke he used to know— _kissing? Sherlock, how the fuck does that even compute?_ —before sending John home in a cab on his own, like some… some… John is so pissed off he can't think of the word.

As the cab crosses under Waterloo Bridge, it comes to him: _cast-off._ A piece of clothing flung into a bin because it no longer fits. He feels ripped, torn, unappreciated, discarded. Sherlock wouldn't even properly acknowledge the drama that had unfolded on the crime scene and the fact that John could have exposed himself to the toxin before launching into one of his clever diatribes and dismissing the entire evening as some dick-waving contest between him and that bloody psychopath Moriarty.

When he closes his eyes John can still see the scene which unfolded on the dance floor less than ten minutes after he'd called time of death. Suddenly, the contrast between him and that Victor guy hits him square between the eyes. If Sherlock has a choice—and apparently he does—of being wrapped in the arms of hunk like that millionaire blond instead of coming home to a post-crash sulk on a sofa sharing take-away with a washed-up ex-soldier who's avowedly not gay, but simply a tag-along behind him on one of his cases, well…

_No contest._

Gob-smacked into wordless fury doesn't even come close to describing John's mood. For as long as John's known the man, Sherlock has never shown absolutely any interest in anyone of either sex. Well, there had been Irene, but his behaviour around The Woman had made it clear that the attraction had been cerebral not sexual. _A game, that's what it always bloody is for him._ Sherlock had seemed oblivious to Irene's blatant attempts to flirt, an assessment which had John had tested by snarking about baby names.  The look of utter confusion that had been Sherlock's reaction had told John what he needed to know; whatever Sherlock was doing with The Woman, it didn't involve his sex drive. Perhaps her way of weaponizing her own had been mildly interesting to him, and that's what Sherlock had eventually bested her with, his disdain for such weaknesses obvious.

Is it any wonder that John has always been convinced Sherlock doesn't have any romantic inclinations? Mister _not-my-area_ Holmes has always been scathing in his disrespect for anyone of either gender with normal sexual impulses, all of which are dismissed by that epithet, _sentiment_. His irritation with John's dating has been a case in point. His superior attitude—summed up in an unspoken yet oh–so–obvious motto of _I–can–control–such–base–instincts–why–can't–you?_ has grated on John's nerves for years. Well, if there is nothing on offer but cold sarcasm and machine-like logic, then John will keep being forced to find comfort and warmth in the arms of women. The man's even voiced the occasional complaint that John's dating is an unnecessary waste of time, a drag anchor on their joint pursuit of The Work. The only exception is when it suits Sherlock, as John had discovered when directed by Sherlock to chat up Henry Knight's admittedly attractive therapist.

_Self-centred, egotistical, manipulative…._

"What was that? If you want to say something to me, you need to use the intercom button on the door."

Its red light has just come on, and John is startled out of his mental argument with a man who should be sitting next to him on the way home to the flat that they share. Jesus, he must have ranted some of that out loud.

Tapping the button, he replies, "Nothing. It's nothing. Just talking to myself."

"Excuse me interfering, mate, but you look like you're going to explode."

"It's none of your bloody business." John slaps the intercom button off, and heaves himself back against the seat, pulling at the chest strap of the seat belt. Why the hell do cab seat belts always end up throttling him?

 _'Because you're shorter than the average British male'_ comes the imaginary retort from the man who should be sitting next to him but isn't. John rolls his eyes to the ceiling of the cab. Christ, now he's even supplying his own version of Sherlockian snide commentary to beat himself up! _Get out of my head!_

The cab turns left onto Northumberland Avenue, heading for Trafalgar Square.  As they pass a black limo going in the opposite direction, John tries to shut down his imagination regarding what might be going on in the back of the one that Sherlock had been so keen on getting into.

_Who is this Victor Trevor?_

If it had been any one else, John might have asked if this was some elaborate charade of Sherlock's, done for the purpose of a case. But clearly, this Victor had known Sherlock back at university, that kiss says it had been as more than friends. However good Sherlock is at acting a part, that kiss had been downright _carnal._ The idea of that and Sherlock is like oil and water; the two don't mix in John's imagination. But, given the evidence of tonight's performance, the next question is: had their relationship been a good thing or not, back then? John is not so naïve as to think that every sexual relationship is one of equality and mutual respect. Given Sherlock's… _need to_ _be bloody honest right now_ … autism, what went on with this Victor might have been far from a healthy thing.

It's out in the open now—why this whole thing is making him anxious as hell. Could Victor have taken advantage of a vulnerable young adult? Could he also be linked to the drugs John knows are a part of Sherlock's past? Not even a very distant past, if Lestrade's fake drug bust on the first night he'd known Sherlock is anything to go by. Not to mention Mycroft's constantly being worried about what he calls _danger nights_.  John's seen with his own eyes the side effects of Sherlock on drugs, even if on that occasion if had not been voluntary use.* When he'd been under the influence of Irene's drug, he'd been sweet and affectionate towards John, something that pricks his conscience now. Sherlock has more than enough reason to fear a physical relationship. John knows, from the pile of medical files he's had to read at various times over the past three years that Sherlock has suffered several kinds of abuse in the past, and that drug use had ended his university career a year earlier than anticipated.** 

 _Why? Did that have anything to do with Victor?_ _Had Victor Trevor been an instigator? A participant? Or just an innocent bystander?_

John wonders about the argument between Trevor and Wilkes on the balcony; might it somehow have been related to Sherlock? He now regrets never asking Mycroft for more details about Cambridge. His protective instincts are positively itching. Should he call Mycroft to discuss this now?

 _'Irrelevant._ _That was then; this is now._ ' John hears the baritone dismissal as if Sherlock were sitting beside him while the cab goes northwards up Regents Street.

It makes John re-consider. Things have been tetchy to say the least between them. If he does something to question Sherlock's choices, what will this do to their relationship? He knows what Sherlock means to him. Not just the life-style, the adrenaline kick of case work, the domesticity of sharing his life with such an extraordinary person—there is more to it than that. There always has been. Since the first night, since Jeff Hope, John knows that there is something more to the almost instant loyalty. The past two years have been fulfilling in a way that John would never have believed possible, and Sherlock's been the centre of his life. But he's not been willing to look at _why_ in any detail. What's the point? Sherlock doesn't do  _relationships_.  

After tonight, John may have to revise that view, which makes him more than a little annoyed and just a bit depressed. In any competition—should it ever be such a thing—Victor Trevor would outshine a has-been like him.  Sherlock is not a naïve teenager now.  He has faced down James Moriarty and come back for more—there is emotional resilience there that should not be underestimated. Apart from the oddness on Dartmoor, the last few months Sherlock has been remarkably focussed, almost calm. There is a kind of driven determination, a healthy and boundary-setting _up-yours_ attitude towards Mycroft, and it seems as though Sherlock has tempered a lot of his more reckless lifestyle. The cases are fewer and farther between than they used to be—thanks to Mycroft's meddling—but when they do happen, it seems that Sherlock is more determined to be seen to be doing things the right way. Does he even _need_ John now? 

Making a fuss now might be the worst possible thing. For all the times that he's cursed Sherlock for interfering with his own attempts to date women, does John not now owe him the same room that he's wanted for himself? Is Sherlock not entitled to a private life?

By the time the taxi drops him at the door of 221b, John is no longer angry. Confused, worried, unsure of what to do next—yes, ticks on all of those boxes. But, before he does anything precipitous, he decides to do some research into just who this Victor Trevor is. 

_Friend or foe?_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The most obvious example of John seeing Sherlock under the influence is when Irene drugged him. For that story, see *Calling the Police in Belgravia*, part of the Got My Eye on You series. 
> 
> There is also the fact that at the end of my story *Collateral Damage*, Sherlock is forcibly kidnapped, beaten and drugged repeatedly by Sebastian Moran, in order to stop him from a possible coalition with James Moriarty. The effects of that drug-taking complicate his recovery in the story *Sidelined*, in which John accompanies him to rehab. John's reading of Sherlock's rather substantial medical files has occurred on a number of occasions in my many stories; he is, after all, the holder of Sherlock's medical power of attorney. The adolescent sexual abuse incident is raised in *Musgrave Blaze* and *Defrag*.


	9. Smokescreen

Unnoticed for the most part by the passengers in the back seat, the scenic route takes the limo across south London, past Elephant & Castle, through Kennington and then across the Thames on the Vauxhall bridge. As they pass the spot-lit façade of the MI6 building on the left, Sherlock breaks off from kissing Victor long enough to drop the window a bit, stick his hand out and flip the middle finger.

It makes Victor chuckle. "Does that count as unnecessary provocation?"

The baritone rumble of laughter against his throat serves as confirmation.

By the time they have journeyed across the river, their kisses have taken on an even more heated tone. Sherlock had not fastened his seat belt to start with, and now he has wrestles Victor's off so that they can lean over and press their bodies together.

When the car stops at a traffic light at the junction with Warwick Way, Victor comes up for air. "Christ, I'd nearly forgotten what snogging you is like. Full-body experience…" He is almost breathless with the sheer physicality of kissing Sherlock. His body has come alive, tingling with the intensity and unexpectedness of it all, the old pathways of their intimacy re-opened, re-charged.

There is nothing hesitant or unsure about Sherlock's approach, and such confidence is utterly exhilarating. Victor is just blown away by it, and he can't stop smiling. This is not what he would have expected, not after the way things had ended all those years ago but he is tempted not to waste a single second worrying about that. _All those years of thinking this was lost_ …

Sherlock is giving him an intense look, those blue-green eyes of his boring holes right into Victor. "What?!" he demands, having sensed Victor's brief hesitation.

Victor tries to shrug off his sudden unease but can't not entirely. "Are you sure, _really_ sure about this?"

"Sure about what?" Sherlock asks dismissively, as though he doesn't really want to hear the answer. "Why are we still talking?" he grabs hold of Victor lapels to pull him closer, but a strategically placed palm on his chest stops him.

Victor purses his lips, studying Sherlock's expression. Could it be that Sherlock has put behind him the way their relationship before had ended, just like that? Sherlock had been the one who had made the decision not to contact him, not to read his letter. How is this suddenly so _easy_?

"You're having second thoughts? Is it because Mycroft will eventually find out?," Sherlock asks. "He always does. Based on what we are about to do, it will take him time. But, whatever hold he has on you, you'd best be prepared for the worst."

"You're worth it. That's not an issue."

That endearing wrinkle of confusion appears again, making Victor want to scoop Sherlock up in his arms to smooth it clear, to erase the signs of fatigue he can now spot on that delicate-featured face. They are signs he had missed before but now, when they're so close, with Sherlock's long fingers still clutching his shirt… _He looks worn down_ , Victor realises _. Like he hasn't slept in ages._

"What does that even mean? I don't understand. What time does your flight back to California take off?" Sherlock interrogates.

"I am supposed to be at the Stock Exchange at eight and Biggin Hill by noon on Monday."

Sherlock nods. "In and out; planning to be airborne before he can stop you."

"Only three people knew I was even thinking of coming to London, and I only decided for sure two days ago. Mycroft wouldn't be forewarned.  I've planned it all so carefully. Even if he had found out, he wouldn't have had a real reason to stop me, not before _this_ happened." Victor reaches up to place his palm on Sherlock's neck so that he can stroke the edge of his chin with his thumb.

Sherlock pulls away from the touch. "What is _this_?"

"You tell me."

Sherlock withdraws, rearranges himself back against his side of the seat, retreats into himself. He even turns his head to watch the traffic out of the smoked-glass window. "I don't know," he murmurs. "Unexpected. Complicated."

"Problem?"

"Logically, I have no time for this. Can't stop, can't lose a moment of focus; it's too dangerous. I have to keep the momentum moving forward. I have plans; things I have to do. None of them involve you."

"You and me both. Never in a million years did I expect this—even just sitting next to you is…" Victor shakes his head. _…is like seeing a ghost_ , he concludes privately. "Yet, here we are." Victor reaches over and reaches an arm around Sherlock's shoulders, pulling him gently back to rest against his chest, folding him into a protective embrace. He takes some comfort in the fact that there is no resistance. Sherlock turns into the embrace, wraps his arms around Victor's neck, closes his eyes as his cheek comes to rest on Victor's shoulder. "What are we going to do?" This question is asked in a caramel-toned whisper, almost as if Sherlock is afraid of being overheard.

" _Carpe diem_ , Sherlock." Victor smiles, hoping that his tone of voice will carry that smile even if it can't be seen.

"Technically speaking, it should be _carpe noctem_."

"Show-off."

"It's what I do."

"I know."  Victor puts into that acknowledgement all the love and affection he's stored up over the years for Sherlock.

Ever the practical one of this pairing, Sherlock retorts, "About ten more minutes before we get to the Dorchester."

"Then let's spend it wisely." Victor leans ever so slightly forward so that he can properly bury his nose in Sherlock's black curls. He breathes in deeply, lets the familiar scent flood his head with intoxicating memories. He sets his hands to work on some dress shirt buttons, intent on exploring this miracle in his arms.

oOoOoOoOoOo

In fact, it takes almost sixteen minutes due to a snarl-up at Hyde Park Corner before the chauffeur takes the limo onto the hotel driveway around the iconic fountain. He gives a polite tap on the privacy screen glass and gives his passengers a moment to compose themselves. By the time he opens the door for them, the two men who get out are properly dressed, even if they are flushed and breathing heavily enough that their breath vaporises in the cold air.

Sherlock leads the way into the lobby area, striding confidently across the white-and-black-tiled floor, straight past the reception and concierge desks. Victor follows him, blithely ignoring the sign reading _'This promenade is reserved for hotel guests only after 10 p.m_.' Sherlock is a man on a mission, walking quickly with the assurance of someone who knows the hotel well. He ignores the glances of the guests who, even at this hour of the morning, are enjoying wine, coffee and conversation served by a bar at the far end. Past the green velvet sofas and chairs, straight up a flight of stairs, Sherlock is walking as if he had a guest room key in their pockets. 

 _How does he do that?_ Victor marvels. This is the man he saw managing the crime scene, not the awkward boy who avoided social contact and struggled to manage his sensory issues. This new Sherlock is a breath-taking, utterly gorgeous, an all-absorbing miracle. Victor is falling for him all over again. _Not that I ever stopped loving him in the first place_.

Down the corridor of retail outlets which are closed for the night, then heading for the bank of lifts, Sherlock suddenly deviates and goes through a door marked "Staff Only", pulling a surprised Victor along with him in his wake. Once the door clicks shut behind them, Sherlock pushes him back up against the wall. His blue-green eyes are glittering with a serious determination that Victor has never before seen. "It's now or never, Victor. Once we leave here together, there's no way back until we get safely to your flat. If you want to stop, just say so. You can get a cab out the front, I'll walk home. The safest option for you is that this never happened."

"John Watson knows it did."

"You don't need to concern yourself with him," Sherlock remarks tersely, as though he's angry for Victor mentioning the man. "Yes or no?"

For Victor there is no choice to be made here, not really. Even if Mycroft finds out and carries through with his threat to destroy the company if he ever contacted Sherlock again, Victor knows that it doesn't matter. _It's only money_. _A second chance with Sherlock?_ _Priceless._

He nods and replies, without hesitation: "Yes, God yes, of course I'm going with you." _You shouldn't even have to ask_. 

"You're sure? I can't promise you anything more than this weekend."

"I can't think about Monday, or next week, or next year. Just be with me _now_."

Sherlock's eyes soften, and there is relief in them. He leans in and, with extraordinary tenderness, leans his forehead against Victor's chest, breathing a quiet "thank you".

Further along the employee corridor, there is the sound of lift machinery, and then a ding of arrival. A uniformed waiter emerges, carrying a tray of canapes and is soon startled at the sight of the two of them. "Excuse me, sirs, but this is reserved for staff only. You'll have to return to the guest areas of the hotel."

Sherlock recovers his composure in an instant, breaks away from Victor and strides towards the waiter, eyes on the tray. "Food Standards Inspection; we have permission to visit all areas. Just on our way to the kitchens. Let me take a look at what you have here."

Perhaps it is the tone of utter authority that does it but the waiter complies, lowering the tray until Sherlock can take a good look at the cling-film covered dishes of smoked salmon, caviar and cold prawns.

Imperiously, Sherlock asks, "What temperature were these when you picked them up from the service hatch?"

The waiter shakes his head. "Haven't a clue, sir."

Sherlock tuts, putting his hand on the side of the dish of prawns. "That's room temperature; bacteria will already be starting to grow. Make sure the bar staff note the time of the arrival, and tell them that if it isn't back in a fridge within the hour, it shouldn't be served. You do know that, don't you?"

The waiter's alarm is palpable. "No sir, I didn't know that."

Sherlock tuts again, "Not your fault––" He peers at the waiter's name badge, "––George; it's bad training. I'll talk to the chef. Now, off you go."

The waiter scuttles past Victor and out into the corridor.

As soon as the door shuts behind him, Victor starts chuckling. "Pretty convincing liar. Are you always able to talk yourself out of trouble?"

"Not always, no. But this is child's play."

"Now what?"

"We move, and fast. The clock is already ticking." Sherlock is already in motion. Dashing for the lift, he manages to catch it while it's still on their floor.

Victor jumps in beside him as the doors shut and Sherlock stabs the minus three button. Down they go, and when the doors open, it's onto a laundry area with metal carts and bins full of towels, sheets and uniforms. Sherlock starts rifling through the closest one before Victor is even out of the lift.

"Why here?" Off in the distance, Victor can hear washing machines; the heat and humidity are welcome. He hadn't brought a coat with him, thinking he'd be in a car or inside all night.

"Camouflage."  Sherlock holds up a chef's soiled white jacket, scrutinising first it and then Victor before tossing the garment back in the bin. "You're still the same size chest as you were when I bought you that purple cardigan."

"Yes. I still have it, by the way."

"Try this one." Another jacket is thrown in Victor's direction. He slips his jacket off and works his arms into the sleeves, noticing the stains down the front. It smells a bit of garlic and something spicy, as well as a hefty bit of sweat. He sniffs at it uncomfortably.

Sherlock is shrugging off his coat and jacket and spots the wrinkled nose. "One too clean would attract attention. We need to pass as kitchen workers."

"Why?"

"You'll see."

Victor empties the pockets of his dinner jacket, slipping the phone and SIM card into his pocket. "My suit's a rental, organised by the bank. I had no idea that they were going to take me out this evening."

"Good, then it won't matter if it goes missing. Leave it behind."

Sherlock is now wearing a white jacket over his black trousers. He carefully folds up his long coat and his suit jacket, sliding both into an empty guest dry cleaning bag, labelling it carefully and then dropping into one of the rolling carts. "It could do with a clean anyway; they'll keep it here when they realise it doesn't have a room number on it. I put it in your fake name, by the way."

Victor laughs. It seems that Sherlock is always, _always_ one step ahead and never fails to make use of all opportunities a situation offers. "Isn't that what aliases are for?" Victor follows him to a set of stairs. As they climb back up to ground level, he can't resist asking the obvious question: "How do you know about these places in the hotel?"

"I had a three-day stakeout here once. Russian mafia was in town, running a racket out of the Oliver Messel Suite. I was undercover, disguised as a room service waiter. Surprising how often rich people ignore hotel employees; their egos are so big it's like staff become part of the furniture."

He opens the door and off they go, down another corridor. Its once white walls are scuffed and scratched, and the industrial rubber flooring feels a bit sticky under Victor's shoes. Around a corner they go, and suddenly there are more people: employees in a variety of uniforms, talking, laughing, talking on their phones. It is like he and Sherlock are invisible; nobody gives them a second glance as they slip into an employee locker room. Sherlock heads to the line of metal lockers the farthest from the door and starts rattling the flimsy locks. At the fourth one along, it pops open, as does the next one and one further down.

"Why are we rifling through employees' personal belongings?"

"Looking for more camouflage." Sherlock pulls out a hooded anorak and tosses it to Victor, then takes a cheap plastic rain poncho and an umbrella from the next one before slamming the door shut. 

"These are workers probably on minimum wage. Is theft really necessary?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes, takes out his wallet and slips a twenty-pound note through the ventilation grill, then drops more notes into the other two lockers before slamming them shut, too. "They'll be happy enough to get more than the cash value instead."

Without delay, Sherlock is on the move again, forcing Victor to break into a jog as they return to the corridor and join a queue of workers who are leaving through an employee entrance behind the hotel.  Instead of heading for Park Lane, Sherlock turns in the opposite direction and starts running. Victor has to sprint to catch up, but he does just as the alleyway dumps them onto the pavement on Deanery Street. Sherlock immediately puts up an umbrella, even though the drizzle is light. When he notices Victor's surprise, he explains: "Cameras."

 _Oh._ Victor takes the umbrella, offers his arm, and they walk eastwards. "As far as anyone's concerned, you're my date."

Even though the hour is late, it only takes a few minutes before they spy a taxi with a yellow light. It turns out South Audley Street is a major north–south shortcut for cabs wanting to avoid Marble Arch. Victor holds the umbrella over Sherlock as he gets into the taxi and then uses the rain as an excuse to use the umbrella to shield himself from the CCTV camera that he's spotted at the next junction.

Even as Sherlock squirms out of the plastic poncho, he's leaning in to ask Victor very quietly what the address of the flat is.

Victor kisses his ear, using his nose to push away some dark curls. "Forty-five Vincent Street; it's near the Tate Britain."

Sherlock leans forward and slaps the intercom. "Take us to the DoubleTree Hilton on John Islip Street."

As the cab sets off, he pulls the hood of Victor's anorak over his hair before settling back and keeping his eyes away from the window. Victor, however, looks out of the rain spattered window at London's lights. He sneaks a hand over to Sherlock's own and takes it in a firm grip. He cannot bear to be out of physical contact; a part of him still carries the irrational fear that Sherlock might disappear at any moment, that he's just a figment of an overworked and jet-lagged imagination triggered by coming back to London.

Traffic is light, and it isn't long before they get dropped at the reception of the hotel. This time Sherlock pays and then, once the taxi has pulled away, he beckons Victor to follow him across the street. The umbrella is in use again, providing them with a shield. There is a low wall, topped with iron fencing and a locked gate, which Sherlock blithely hops over and waits for Victor to do the same. Thereafter, Victor loses all sense of direction. They go down driveways, pavements, through a nursery school playground, across car parks. Where there are gates and fences, Sherlock effortlessly leaps or climbs over them while Victor struggles to keep up. It's dark and in this residential area there are few lights on in the windows, yet Sherlock clearly knows where he is going. The umbrella comes into use only one more time—to cross Marsham Street before they return to the back garden route behind the buildings lining the southern side of Vincent Street.

When they are nearly at the end of that road, Victor grabs Sherlock's arm and points. "That's the building ahead. I've got the door code."

"Is there a back door?"

"Yeah, into the garden. But that's fenced."

"No problem. There is a bigger challenge between here and there, however."

They are in a very dark part of back garden behind a block of flats. In front of them stands a metal fence which Sherlock vaults with ease. Heavier, Victor is a bit more cautious, especially when he can't really see what's on the other side. It turns out they are on a driveway into a parking garage that is between them and their destination.

"Now what?"

"This is the challenging bit." Sherlock goes over to the wall of the garage and creates a stirrup with his hands. "I'll hoist you up so you can get onto the flat roof of the garage."

"Confession time; I've put on a few pounds since Cambridge."

"Doesn't matter; come on."

Victor steps into the offered hands, and throws himself up the wall. It's at least a meter above him, but suddenly Sherlock stands upright and heaves him up further, to the point where he can grab the strut of a low metal guardrail at the top.

Hanging one-armed from the strut, Victor can feel his feet are being held up a height that allows him to bend his knees a bit. Below him, Sherlock grunts, "Step onto my shoulders, and then pull yourself up."

All those pull-ups at the gym come into play, but it isn't easy. By the time Victor makes it over the rail onto the roof, he's out of breath and has a scraped palm. Luckily, his trousers are hired; they must look a mess.

He peers over the side into the darkness. "How the hell are you going to get up here on your own?"

"Stand clear."

From the direction that the voice comes from, Sherlock must have moved back away from the wall by some distance. There is the sound of running, and then Sherlock leaps onto the first bollard at the entrance of the car park. Without a moment's hesitation, he strides to the next one and then the next, before using the momentum to launch himself up at the guardrail, which he clears, doing a somersault over his right shoulder to kill the momentum before landing on his feet.

Victor starts laughing. "Bloody hell, Sherlock; where'd you learn parkour?"

"Useful," Sherlock puffs, "for times like these."

He's already half way across the garage roof and then drops down easily into the garden at the back of Victor's block of flats. Victor lands somewhat more heavily behind him with a grunt, takes a step forward and then trips over something that sounds like metal in the dark; he ends up crashing into Sherlock, who goes down, too. They end up in a heap, and for a moment there is silence, followed by a whispered "alright?" uttered by both almost simultaneously.

Sherlock chuckles. "So much for stealth."

Victor is trying very hard to stifle a laugh, managing to whisper, "Is your professional pride bruised?" 

"No, but my knee is going to be. I think that was a tricycle you tripped over; when you fell into me I landed on it."

"I should kiss it better, then."

Giggling, Victor manages to use the code to get the back door open and they make their way up the three flights of stairs to the flat without further mishap. Victor tries to fish out the key from his trouser pocket, but soon has to stifle another laugh: Sherlock is dangling it from his fingers.

"Learned how to pick pockets, too?" He snatches them back out of Sherlock's hand. "Requisite skills for a rogue consulting detective, I guess."

The smile that forms on Sherlock's face is something Victor never wants to forget. His hand is shaking from exertion and nerves as he unlocks the door and then stands aside, gesturing Sherlock to enter first. "Welcome to my humble abode."

Once the door clicks shut behind him, Victor starts fumbling for a light switch.

"Don't." The familiar baritone is muffled slightly as Sherlock peels off the plastic poncho and drops the dripping garment on the floor.

"Don't what?"

"Don't turn the lights on; I don't need them to find my way. Not with you."

Victor's smile would be enough to light up the room; as his eyes adjust, he decides he's fine in the dark, too. The curtains of the living room window overlooking Regency Street let in the soft light of the street lamps, allowing him to see Sherlock's eyes positively devouring him.

He opens his arms wide. "Come here, then, and let me show you how much I've missed you."


	10. In the Heat of the Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter earns the rating and fulfills the tag of #Consensual Sex. Not your scene? Don't read. As ever in such matters, my drafts were suitable ramped up (ahem) by the incomparable @JBaillier, without whom I cannot manage these days. "Contributing editor," indeed.

Looking at Victor's open arms, Sherlock wonders why he is hesitating.

That moment on the dance floor when he'd turned around and seen Victor had unleashed an impulse, a _need_ that took him completely by surprise. It had been reckless, risky, dangerous. The timing couldn't be worse. And yet, the sight of Victor had been utterly irresistible.

Perhaps it was because Sherlock had spent the whole night fighting off the craving that his sensory overload had cranked up to familiar levels—so much so that he'd been forced to dose himself with nicotine to be able to resist the lure of the MDMA tablet in his pocket. There was no way he could have taken the tablet; the Sigurson Plan required complete abstinence. Mycroft would jump at the chance to discredit him if he slipped even this one time. But the lure of it is real. His central nervous system had once connected that craving to the sights, smells and sounds of a club, and not even staying away from such temptations for more than a decade had cut that neural link.

He'd succumbed without a thought to another kind of addiction, one he'd thought dead and buried thirteen years ago.

For the past hour, making their way across London, he's been wrestling with himself as well as an armful of Victor, trying to decide what to do. The easy way out would have been if Victor had come to his senses at the Dorchester and realised that this… _collision_ is an unfortunate coincidence that has to be resisted. 

He should have known better. Victor had never thought he was ending their relationship when he flew to Auckland. Sherlock had been the one who never–– _No_. _Not going there._

The fact remains that he's going to have to make the decision for both of them.

Various justifications for this relapse into old habits had come to mind in the car. The first one—the one that he'd like to think was what had propelled him into the kiss and then onto the back seat of the limousine—had been fear. Moriarty had just shown how easy it would be to kill John. To make him less of a target, John needs to be seen to be pissed off at Sherlock. The kiss is certainly likely to do that. Going off quite so blatantly with Victor in the car should make him suitably apoplectic.

The second reason is that, when Mycroft finds out, it will drive him mad. However much he might rail against this, Mycroft won't be able to use this against Sherlock. Unlike drug use, sex between consenting adults is legal, and Sherlock is certain that Elizabeth ffoukes will protect him against Mycroft's fuming. Flipping the finger at Mycroft, knowing that eventually the man would see it? _So satisfying_. The fact that it could be done without harming Victor is an added benefit; he will be gone by Monday, out of Mycroft's reach. If he should try to do something stupid, Sherlock might be able to get Elizabeth ffoukes to warn him off rather than endanger their plans. 

The third justification that had come to mind at some point when the car passed Elephant & Castle, when Sherlock had been relishing the touch of Victor's lips against his own, is that he _needs_ this. Until fate dangled it before his eyes, he hadn't realised how relentless the pressure has become, how terribly high the level his building anxiety has reached. It's been dogging his heels ever since it became clear that the only way out of this mess was to defeat Moriarty with the Sigurson Plan.

For months, his case work has been constrained. For months, he has been lying to John of all people. For months, he has done everything in his power to appear capable of executing the plan. The strain has taken a toll on him; the Baskerville drug-enhanced meltdown in the back of the Land Rover at the Cross Keys Inn had shown him just how close to the edge he was*—and still is. On more than one occasion since, it has only been his utter determination to prove Mycroft wrong, together with his commitment to saving John's life that has kept him going.

As soon as he rehearses these reasons, he is forced to admit that they are _post-facto_ rationalisations of what is a deeply irrational act. It's answering a need that will not benefit his plans in any way, and the risks are colossal. In the split second as Victor's arms had embraced him and tilted his chin up to be kissed, he'd felt both the pull of things which should never again see the light of day, but also his desperate need for a release.

 _Time out of mind_. Better than any cocaine hit, the rush of blood and hormones had lit him up like no drug could ever do.

 _Oh, it felt so good!_  Euphoria didn't even begin to describe it.  Old pathways, primitive physical needs that he's denied for so long have ripped free from the constraints of a self-enforced celibacy and swept every resolve he's ever had away. It feels so surreal, now, to think that sex was once a part of his life, as natural as a cup of tea and his textbooks on the kitchen table in their flat. Life had been so much simpler, then. _There's no going back to that_. _Impossible. Irrelevant_.

Yet, that past is right in front of him, now, and though Victor has changed, the expression he wears now precisely matches an errant memory that has escaped from under the floorboards of the Mind Palace. He's different, yes; the years have had their effect but at the same time, he's precisely the way Sherlock remembers.

 _Safe_. That's how he'd felt like with Victor all those years ago, and he's not even certain what entices him more right now: his need to relinquish responsibility, or the craving in his body begging for release.

His body is singing, almost fizzing with energy since that first embrace, and Victor is standing there, offering more. Sherlock ignores the little voice that is saying _'once an addict, always an addict'_ and closes the gap between them. Even before he gets enveloped in those muscular arms, his fingers are undoing the buttons on the white jacket that Victor is wearing. "Let's get rid of this; it's done its job."

Victor laughs. "Couldn't agree more, but let me help you out of yours first."

"Stop talking." He lays the fingers of his left hand across Victor's lips, while using his right to pull the penultimate button of the white jacket open.

"Make me."

It is such a blatant invitation that Sherlock has to go in for a kiss, relishing the feel of the rasping roughness of Victor's stubble on the sensitive skin around his own mouth. It's such a contrast of pain and pleasure that it sets off tingles up the back of his neck. 

Victor's trying to undo the final button on his kitchen tunic jacket, but his fingers are fumbling. Sherlock huffs in impatience because it's getting in the way of his own efforts. He pushes the hands—bigger than his; he knows, _remembers_ what those fingers can do, what they can effortlessly reach—aside to expose the white dress shirt underneath.

Scrunching his hands into the fabric, he asks, impatience and arousal making his voice drop a register: "Is this rented, too?"

Victor manages a nod before Sherlock yanks the shirt in opposite directions and there is a satisfying ripping noise and the ping of buttons hitting the floor. His hands push past torn fabric to find skin. Warm, once firm abdominal muscles have been softened a bit by age, but clearly Victor still takes regular exercise. It doesn't matter if there are changes—Sherlock _knows_ this body and what he can do to it. He cannot resist pushing a hand straight up that chest for what he knows will stop Victor from thinking, let alone talking. Victor has his eyes half closed, but Sherlock is watching every move, every flicker of arousal on his face, the flare of nostrils, the flush of blood on his cheeks and neck. It is the most erotic sight he's seen in a decade or more and it goes straight to his cock. He surrenders to the feeling for the first time in ages, relishing the sensation instead of trying to make it go away. For now, he needs to focus on giving rather than receiving to stay in control, to keep on top of his arousal. Watching Victor is the first craving he can satisfy.

Sherlock runs the pads of his thumbs over the soft areolae, then skims across the nipples, feeling them harden beneath his touch. Being able to do such things to someone, to incite such need, had been the most extraordinary discovery of his life when they'd first become lovers. In thirteen years, he's not trusted himself to do this to anyone else, or to let it be done to himself. _The cost is too great._

When Sherlock pinches the rising skin between his index finger and thumb, Victor's breathing quickens, and then explodes into a soft exhaled moan. _God, such beautiful, amazing power._ He uses kisses to push Victor into taking a backward step until he is up against the door. Now pulling the shirt wide open and pushing the chef's whites off those broad shoulders, Sherlock dips his head and takes the right nipple into his mouth, sucking hard and rubbing it between tongue and teeth as he uses his thumbnail against the left.

" _Sherlock_!" Victor's vocal appreciation is accompanied by him throwing his head back until it thumps against the door, leaving that muscular neck exposed. Its lines are different now, not as thick as during Victor's rugby career. The sight entices Sherlock to move his mouth up there, sucking hard, knowing it will leave a mark that will be a visible reminder of this moment. His left hand pinches the nipple hard again and this time he is rewarded by a shudder running through Victor's shoulders and another moan. He drops his right hand to Victor's waist and swiftly deals with the buckle, pushing the belt away. The trouser button proves no obstacle, nor does the zip. Now sliding his tongue further up Victor's neck, he slips his hand in to palm the hard cock inside what his fingers tell him are boxer briefs. The fabric stretches enough for him to use his fingers to grip, eliciting an involuntary buck of the taller man's hips. _This… just this. To bring someone to such a state._ He's missed this almost as much as the sex itself.

Panting, Victor blurts out, "Wait…. _wait_!" He puts a hand onto Sherlock's chest and pushes him back.

Confused by the mixed signals he's suddenly getting after such a stellar start, Sherlock relents and steps back, relinquishing his hold on Victor's cock. "What?!"

A few more panting breaths, then: "As much as I'd love the _déjà vu_ experience of Simon's docklands flat—which still ranks as the number one blow job in my entire life by the way…" He drags another deep breath in, "… there are things we need to talk about. Stuff that needs to be said."

"Stuff? What stuff?" Sherlock's own erection flags a bit at the interruption, which doubles his annoyance.

"For a start, you should want to know that three weeks ago, my test results were clean and I haven't had sex since." It comes out in one breathless burst.

Sherlock smirks, relieved for such a harmless topic. "The same here. The last time I was tested I was clean, and I haven't had sex since." He's not going to admit to Victor having been his last proper partner or that he's referring to tests done because of his drug habit; no need to address either of those issues now.

Or _ever_. 

Sherlock eagerly starts to step forward again but is stopped by Victor taking a hold on his shoulders and keeping him away. "Sherlock, wait. There's more."

"More? No, I don't think so. Talking is only going to complicate things." _Don't do this._ He hesitates to voice the plea, but surely it's there in the tone of his voice. To be sure there is no misunderstanding, he asks "Can't we just––"

"Like what happened thirteen years ago?" Victor interrupts.

He's studying Sherlock's expression with intense scrutiny and Sherlock is tempted to look away, to step aside, to extricate himself this instant from what Victor is trying to dredge up. _I can't afford to do this, not now, not ever._ _That was then, this is now_. He squeezes his eyes shut and prays for things, old things, bad things, things he can't ever look at again, to stay away.

No such luck. "Things such as why you broke it off with me, why you ended up in rehab," Victor says. "And then there's all of what's happened to you and to me since we, well, since we were together."

"Irrelevant," Sherlock snaps, and it's a command to let it go, to not disturb the waters, to not break the ice underneath them. He feels poised on a precipice about to leap off into an abyss. _Why can't Victor understand that now is not the time for hesitation?_ Sherlock doesn't want to talk or think; he needs to _feel._ Just this once, just for a moment, he needs a break from being suspended between the rock and a hard place where he's being squeezed to death by Moriarty. If he stops to talk, it will crack open the hidden places in his Mind Palace. Under the floorboards are hidden regrets; stuffed into the cavities between the walls are things this talking is going to uncover—things he can't deal with now.

"Sherlock…"

He hears the worry and something more in the way Victor says his name. _Too late_.  He can no more stop this now than he can pretend it's all a dream. 

He cuts off whatever else Victor is about to add with a terse: "That was then. This is now. The past should stay where it belongs, and I told you that I can't think about the future. This is the _now._ Be with me _now._ You said you could, and I believed you. Can you do this for me, _please_?" He hates the fact that his voice breaks on the last word. Victor must now plainly see the desperation he's feeling but, well, he can be embarrassed by his need, but he's not going to deny it.

Victor's eyes are troubled, but he reaches out to stroke his thumb along Sherlock's cheek. "Since when have I ever denied you something?" He lets his warm, strong hand trail down Sherlock's neck before offering it to him, palm upwards. "This is the _now_ ," Victor promises quietly.

Sherlock takes the hand offered and leads them across the small living room to the door that he has deduced is the bedroom.

oOoOoOoOo

Victor's first visit to the flat had lasted less than fifteen minutes, focused on dumping his bag, having a wash and a quick shave, changing his clothes and then hurrying out for the meeting at Shad Sanderson. Looking at it again now, lit only by the Vincent Street lights that come in through the window, he sees it for what it is—a university boy's digs: basic IKEA furniture, untidy with books, papers and junk lying around. It's a student's place for sleeping, eating and relaxing without wanting to invest much thought or effort into his surroundings. Sam Banfield's boy is doing a master's at Imperial in some weird mathematics, and the flat had been bought by his parents as an investment. Given how London property prices are rising, by the time he finishes his degree in two years, they'll end up making a profit. It's the perfect borrowed bolt-hole for someone like Victor who wants to avoid attracting attention.

As a love nest, however, it offers little luxury or glamour. "Not exactly the Dorchester," Victor says apologetically.

He watches Sherlock's eyes scanning the room, taking in the new and unfamiliar territory. During their time at Cambridge, strange places always put the man on edge, made him visibly anxious. Victor remembers their night at the inn at Aylesbury when they'd both been so cold, tired and exhausted that they'd been willing to take any refuge in the snowstorm.

When those blue-green eyes finish their circuit around the room, they come to rest back on Victor. "It'll do." With a tiny quirk of a smile, Sherlock says, "At least it's not pink."

Victor snorts, then replies without thinking: "Without the birthday party music, we'll have to keep it down or the neighbours will complain."

They both grin at the memory**, and it breaks the tension.

Sherlock picks up the edge of the crumpled duvet on the bed and wrinkles his nose. "Are there clean sheets?"

The question sends Victor into the bathroom, where he's relieved to find towels, a clean fitted sheet and a clean duvet cover in the airing cupboard. He comes back in and, with a smile presents the cover to Sherlock. "You spoke too soon."

It's _pink_ , covered in bright fuchsia spots. The matching pillowcases are even brighter. They both start laughing. As they make the bed, Victor can hardly believe that after more than a decade, it's still there: that connection they'd shared, a sense of knowing what the other is thinking, of being able to finish each other's sentences, of having shared, happy memories. It's as if a truce has been declared; an implicit agreement they will think only of the good things and put aside, for now, the way their relationship had ended.

But, they can't keep that discussion at bay forever. They have until Monday, and Victor is _not_ leaving London without having dealt with what has haunted him for thirteen years.

 _But, first things first_. "Well, having made it, let's get in it." He sheds the remnants of his wrecked shirt and steps out of the hired trousers, tossing them onto the chair by the chest of drawers. "You're overdressed, let me help."

He pulls Sherlock's white jacket off, then lets him unbutton the black dress shirt, knowing that this is one of the things that Sherlock always insists on doing. Or, at least he used to when they were living together on Saxon Street. Victor thinks it has something to do with his sensory issues; touch from someone else needs to be firm and purposeful for it to be tolerable. When Sherlock bends to untie his leather shoes Victor gets a look—a really good look— at that arse that used to drive him wild. He puffs out his cheeks in appreciation. It looks even better now— _if such a thing is even possible_ —more luscious than the bottom Victor had spent hours ogling from behind when they went cycling.

Still facing away from Victor, Sherlock straightens back up and starts to remove his trousers, the small of his back forming that concave curve of perfect posture that Victor has never really cared to notice on any other man. When Sherlock has shed his pants and turns to face him in all his naked glory, Victor's eyes widen. The lanky, awkward, half-grown boy he had known in Cambridge has truly grown into his skin. The angular frame has filled out; flesh firming, muscles defining themselves. There is no bulk, just an obvious whipcord strength beneath the skin. No wonder he'd been able to make all those parkour stunts look easy.

"Sherlock…"

"I thought we agreed, no talking."

"I'm not talking; I am _appreciating_. You're gorgeous _._ Like some Greek statue."  Victor reaches out and feels Sherlock's biceps. "Have you been pushing weights?"

"A gym? Of course not, too boring and…" Sherlock flaps a hand dismissively "…noisy, smelly. This is due to mixed martial arts, learned one-to-one because I need the skills. Fighting criminals and all that…" His hands have found their way to the waistband of Victor's Calvin Klein trunks, plucking at them. "Now your turn."

Self-conscious about the softening of his own belly, Victor finishes undressing by pulling his pants down. "The only scrums I get into these days are boardroom battles. And, there are too many corporate lunches to completely eradicate with a bit of gym work or tennis matches."

After giving his form a brief but appreciative glance, Sherlock is now rummaging in the single drawer in the bedside cabinet, but apparently not finding what he is looking for. "Check your side for lube." This is said in an utterly matter-of-fact manner.

"No need." Victor goes to his own washing tackle in his bag and removes a tube, holding it up for Sherlock to see.

It earns him a slightly tight stare. "Planning ahead, were you?"

"More like wishful thinking." Victor's a bit apologetic.

"Says a man who had an STD panel done three weeks ago."

"I'm only human, Sherlock."

Sherlock turns away and sits down on the edge of the bed. "You weren't planning on seeing me but came prepared for casual sex if the opportunity presented itself. Maybe this isn't such a good idea after all."

It seems strange that Victor being single and enjoying the occasional night with someone would put Sherlock off. As far as he knows and what the blog says, Sherlock seems to be single as well.

Wherever the hesitation is coming from, Victor wants to help banish it. He places the lube between the pillows on the bed, then kneels on the floor between Sherlock's legs before taking the downcast head into his hands, lifting it until he can reach the man's lips. After a gentle kiss, he says, "Stop. The past doesn't matter and the future doesn't exist. Wise words from someone I used to know and want to know again, right now." Then he kisses Sherlock again and is relieved to feel it being returned with nearly the same enthusiasm as at the club.

ooOooOooOooOoo

In contrast to their passionate haste in the back of the limo, they take things at a slower pace once they are under the duvet. What few words have been exchanged make them more conscious of unasked questions and unspoken answers. Their deliberately chosen ignorance is shrouding them in its silence.

Lying side by side, Sherlock's fingers are exploring, mapping, touching, gently probing as though he is meticulously rediscovering Victor. Sherlock seems to be cataloguing all the subtle changes that have happened over the years, and Victor wonders if he will be dismayed by the signs of aging.

Victor has tried to stay reasonably fit. The warmer climate offered the perfect opportunity to learn to play tennis; he tries to squeeze in a few matches a week in addition to gym sessions. But, it hasn't been enough to counter the cost of a sedentary work environment; he doesn't look like he did when Sherlock knew him. They've both changed, of course; Sherlock somehow feels _bigger_ , more substantial; now, without the cover of clothes, Victor gets to enjoy these changes to their fullest. Gone are the awkward angles and jutting knees, hip bones on which clothes used to hang. In their place is a lithe, fit and strong body, but not without a few battle scars. Victor tries not to linger on these signs of a life well-and-hard-lived as he returns the caresses he receives.

Eventually, Victor feels Sherlock's sensual approach start to give way to braver touches. He clearly remembers which things particularly arouse Victor: gentle strokes of those fingers up the back of his thighs, the soft swipe of a tongue on the skin of the inside of his wrists, followed by an exhaled breath on the same place. It goes straight to Victor's groin in a way that no other lover has ever been able to find. Perhaps it is the intense, undivided, reverent focus which those acts are delivered that none of the other men or the women Victor has been with has been able to replicate. Their approaches have been standard, making assumptions about erogenous zones which Sherlock had never taken for granted.

Ever the scientist, he had favoured a more empirical approach; back when they shared the Saxon Street flat he'd seem to consider the entirety of Victor to be one big, erotic laboratory. Right now, he's bent over Victor's shoulder to nuzzle the nape of his neck, giving a low hum. The vibration and heat of it is exquisitely exciting, a sensation that becomes yet more so when Sherlock gently traces the edge of his finger nail along Victor's hairline. Those beautiful hands of his possess an extraordinary delicacy of touch. Victor has always been surprised by the contrast that creates: Sherlock could be exquisitely gentle in his touching, whilst needing much firmer contact himself. The contrast between what he receives and what he gives sets up an exhilarating feedback loop, and this is yet another thing Victor's never experienced with any other partner.

He remembers well what Sherlock liked back then and starts delivering it: a strong grip on that arse, a squeeze of a pectoral muscle. They both get off on nipples being fondled, stroked, sucked and pinched. Sherlock's follicles and scalp are so sensitive that all Victor has to do is attend to them and the man practically melts into his ministrations. But, anything too gentle provokes a squirm and a wriggle away. Victor's brief experimenting promptly leads to a confirmation that the man's preferences have not changed during the intervening years.

So many memories come flooding back. Victor has not dared to think of them for years—they've been stored away in his memory like that photo in the box at the back of his closet. The standard Sherlock had set, though—Victor has been reminded of that every time he has made love to anyone else and felt it to be less than what he'd known with the first man he'd ever taken to bed. He wonders if the same is true for Sherlock; has Victor been in his thoughts when he's been with other people? Jealousy raises its head, but is easy to quench: after all, Sherlock is right here, warm and alive, now, in his arms. The past shouldn't matter even if it sets the stage and the rules for this encounter.

One thing is different, now: they are both quieter than what was true before. Not wanting to accidentally do anything that wouldn't be welcome, Victor had had to develop a habit of asking for verbal confirmation to his plans, to ask regularly for feedback. Now, Sherlock's resolute silence feels like a wall between them. It's the only thing threatening to break Victor's enjoyment of what's happening: that he has no idea what Sherlock is thinking.

When they are both fully aroused, only then does Victor use his hand to stroke up the shaft of Sherlock's cock, relishing the silky feel of it and the quickened breath that his touch elicits. He pulls the lube from under the pillow, and moistens his fingers, knowing just the right balance between too much and too little. Too wet and slippery seems to overwhelm any other sensation for Sherlock—not enough triggers a reflex which seems to resemble pain.

If the way Sherlock approaches him differentiates from others, the way he reacts to things Victor does to him is even more unusual. Sherlock's responses are different, intriguing, more complex than any lover Victor's had. He'd once spent an entire evening getting Sherlock to describe the synaesthetic taste and colour that each one of his touches invoked. It was the cherry on top of what made sex with him so extraordinary: when sensory systems are so sensitive, a touch could have layers upon layers of effects.

"What are you tasting, what are you seeing?" he whispers now.

"Orange… the bitterness of bergamot, shot through with cerise," is whispered back.

Victor tries and fails to remember if this combination has any special meaning that he'd once been able to decipher. Cautiously, he asks: "You need this, don't you?" just as he slides his palm down Sherlock's shaft, then halts, shifting the position of his hand so that he can give a possessive, squeeze to Sherlock's balls which have already tightened upwards slightly. He's in full hardness, now.

"Yes…" Drawn out, more a sigh than a word, it is a surrender.

Victor resumes stroking with greater vigour. "Use your fingers," he whispers.

There is no hesitation. Sherlock swipes some of the lube off his own cock, and then shifts his position. Leaning on his elbow, he lifts Victor's top leg and runs his slicked middle finger past the perineum and then circles the rim before gently penetrating. Victor's hips buck against that finger, pushing it deeper into him. He squeezes his eyes shut, exhales as he tries to relax. "I need this, too," he breathes out.

More lubrication is added, and soon two of Sherlock's fingers breach him with ease. As the longer of the two fingers bends, the sensation goes straight to Victor's prostate and out of his mouth in one long groan of pleasure. Panting, he manages: "Now… you. I've waited long enough. Just you."

Sherlock removes his fingers, allowing Victor to move onto his knees, facing away from Sherlock who kneels between Victor's wide-spread legs. Victor is still mourning the removal of those fingers when another presence makes itself known, pressing against him with urgency. Victor responds by lifting his hips. As Sherlock presses in, the first firm thrust makes Victor grunt into the pillow beneath his forehead. Sherlock's arms reach around past his hips to allow his hands to meet up, encircling Victor's cock. He can feel each individual fingertip, as well as the tight circles made between thumb and index fingers. Pulling back a bit, Sherlock thrusts again, his hips pushing Victor's cock into his hand. _God… I'd forgotten this._ The virtue of a strong left hand, skilled with the precision control needed for violin playing.

Sherlock settles into a rhythm, driving into Victor deeper and deeper, further towards a climax. He is panting now, his breath in synch with the quickening thrust and stroke that feels as though it binds their cocks together. Victor is echoing that breathing, each thrust bringing an explosion of sensation. Sherlock has angled himself just so that his thrusts occasionally give Victor's prostate a nudge that pushes the barrage of sensations nearly over the threshold of unbearable.

"Can't last long…" The baritone that utters this sounds…undone.

Victor manages a "same here", before lowering himself onto his elbows and lifting his hips slightly further off the bed, which makes Sherlock's thrusts go even deeper. This encouragement is rewarded with a reflexive squeeze of those marvellous hands on his cock, and he feels himself edging even closer to climax. The building pressure in his balls is answered by an even faster thrusting from Sherlock, and Victor shouts out his release into the pillow. The muscle contractions that accompany his orgasm must have added just that right tightness and friction because Sherlock soon comes mid-stroke, his breathy baritone " _OH!"_ announcing the fact, followed by a groan.

Without separating, they ride the pulsing of the waning climax, bodies moving in synch until coming to a halt. Boneless and exhausted, Sherlock withdraws and slides down onto the mattress to lie alongside Victor, who turns on this side to face him. 

Sherlock's eyes are closed, and he's just starting to get his erratic breathing back under control. When he opens them, the blue-green eyes are wide, pupils dilated, his face, neck and chest flushed blotchy.  He looks deliciously wrecked.

Victor can't resist a smirk. "Now, you also _look_ like you needed that."

"You have _no idea_ how much." Sherlock's admission is accompanied by a relieved smile that matches Victor's.

"Me, too."

They lie there, quietly entwined. Victor drinks in the view of a face that he'd never thought he'd see again.  Those eyes are now so close to his own that he can lose himself in their blue-green sea, as a tumult of thoughts—what they'd had and lost, and what might happen now—swirl around Victor's mind.

Sherlock's smile broadens. "Ready when you are."

Victor looks down at Sherlock's groin and is surprised to see a half hard cock. His own is still recovering from the stupendous orgasm he's just had.

"Christ, Sherlock… I'm not a teenager anymore."

"That's fine by me; time for me to explore you some more."

"Have I changed that much?"

"Still collecting the data."  Sherlock's finger starts tracing a line down Victor's hip. He sits up and pushes Victor over onto his stomach, straightening out his arms and legs before straddling him, facing towards his feet. Lifting Victor's well-muscled left leg, he starts kneading the calf and ankle area. "Good?"

"More than good." It brings back a muscle memory from their cycling days, when exhausted after a speed trial, they'd head back to Saxon Street for sex, a massage and a shower, in that order. And then Victor's hunger would drive him into the kitchen to cook a meal for the two of them. He would put a plate in front of Sherlock and watch the boy's face light up in that particular smile, the one he gave to Victor and to no one else.

That smile is the last memory Victor has before jet lag and exhaustion drag him down into a deep sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *This is covered in Hellish Hound, a part of the Fallen Angel series  
> **This is covered in Excerpt- chapter 49 in The Ex Files.


	11. In the Cold Light of Day

Sherlock wakes when the noise of traffic reaches a level loud enough to be heard on their floor of the block. It's still early, but the moment of disorientation is very brief before his senses come back to life and tell him in no uncertain terms that this is _not_ Baker Street, he is _not_ lying on his own bed on his 800-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets, and that he is _not_ alone. There is another warm body in very close proximity to him. His heart rate goes from relaxed to frantic in the same amount of time it takes for him to recall just who that body is, and what they had got up to last night. The scent of it is everywhere on the sheets—a combination of sweat and semen and _Victor_ that brings back far too many memories for comfort. 

The fact that _he_ had ever been in a real relationship still, as a concept, seems to defy logic and probability. Even more extraordinary is the fact that after years of determined solitude, he has so recklessly plunged back into those waters and even felt calm and safe enough to fall asleep and wake up in an unfamiliar bed. It's a form of total trust that he's never once questioned with Victor.

Only two people in his life have ever had such an effect on him, inspiring a desperate and deep enough devotion for his defences to come crashing down. As urgently as he needs to reorient his mind to saving the second one of them, right now it's terribly hard to focus on anything but the shock and awe of his current company. As the memories flood in on a tsunami of adrenaline, he cannot help but admit that last night had been one of the most extraordinary of his life.

As soon as he opens his eyes, he can see the luminous dial of the alarm clock on the bedside cabinet; it's six fifteen, still dark, but through the open curtains of the window he can sense dawn approaching. The various sounds of the other tenants getting ready for another day of work intrude: central heating pipes pinging, running water, doors shutting, the murmur of voices in the corridor.

He turns over slowly to look at Victor, who is only inches away and sound asleep. Sherlock's movement nearly triggers a cramp in his thigh; he's feeling the effects of last night's exertions in muscles that have not been used in years for this purpose. Thankfully, Victor remains sound asleep despite the mattress shifting as Sherlock gently kneads his fingers into the complaining muscle. The eight-hour time difference between California and London must have taken its toll on Victor; circadian rhythms being what they are, unless he's disturbed, he's not likely to wake until almost noon.

In the dim light, Sherlock looks at the man that the boy he had once loved has become. This is someone who is content in his own body, who moves with sexual confidence and assurance. It is not hard to deduce that Victor has had many lovers since he and Sherlock last shared a bed. Clearly, those experiences had been more pleasurable and less complicated than Sherlock's. Apart from his time with this singular person, Sherlock's experiences of sex have rarely, if ever, been pleasant. Mostly transactional, usually drug-induced, the kind of sexual contact that's all about the other person, and he'd seldom been aroused and never enough to reach his own climax.

Well, he has no one to blame but himself for that fact. 

Victor's almost always preferred to sleep on his back, and that would appear to still be the case.  Sherlock watches the rise and fall of that chest, and remembers the feel of it last night beneath his fingers and lips. An afterburn of synaesthesia tingles his nerve endings at the mere recollection. His eyes trace the familiar line of Victor's jaw, the cleft in his chin, now shadowed by the stubble of a night's growth. Sherlock takes a deep breath, allows himself the guilty pleasure of remembering the feel of the soft lips and those hands on his own body mere hours ago. There is a warm stirring in his groin, which he tries to dismiss.

 _Stop this._ Last night had been a reckless surrender to his body's needs; now, he needs a cooler head to confront the consequences and to get back to urgent business at hand.

Sherlock moves slowly to the edge of the bed, taking care not to shift the mattress or the duvet cover too much. He escapes the bedroom and heads for the loo, relieving his bladder but not flushing to avoid more noise. The tiles of the floor are cold, and a quick swipe of a finger against the radiator tells him that the heating is not on. He grabs the towelling robe that hangs on a hook on the door and pulls it on, relieved that the flat's occupant is roughly his height. As he ties the belt, his nose registers the smell of another person in the soft fabric. _Not Victor. Unpleasant_.

That fact awakens memories he'd rather not relive. There had been a time when everything—absolutely everything—reminded him of Victor. The worst of it had been during the months in rehab when every footstep was judged against the ones he wanted to hear but never would; when every voice's timbre and tone was measured against the words that Victor had spoken to him but never would again. Sherlock had walled himself off from any human touch, batting away anyone who dared put a hand on him because it would never, _ever_ be the same as what he was craving.

Sherlock would state, without hesitation, that it has been easier over the years to recover from cocaine abuse than what he'd gone through to rid his system of Victor. Back at Hayes Grove, the stupid therapist kept banging on about his drug use, when what he was really going through had been withdrawal from his addiction to Victor. The drugs were merely an attempt at self-medication or perhaps even self-annihilation at that point, not the core of the problem. Cohen had seemed to understand him a bit better in this regard but Mycroft had limited her therapeutic role, perhaps out of spite. She had, after all, encouraged Sherlock to try to remedy things when his and Victor's relationship began to disintegrate.

For years, he's thought himself immune to… to _all this._ Now, against all the odds, he's just relapsed.  The thought is terrifying. He shivers involuntarily and pulls the student's bathrobe tighter. 

 _First things first._ He goes to the open plan living room with its kitchen area and scans the walls, looking for a thermostat and heating controls. He finds what he is looking for and switches it on, pushing the digital temperature up. They'd not noticed the cold when he and Victor had arrived last night—too heated by the fire of their desire to give a damn what the room temperature was. The ping of metal tells him that the radiators are starting to warm, but Sherlock knows it will take a while. His own clothes, abandoned on the chair in the bedroom are off limits unless he wants to take the risk of waking Victor, but he knows the robe isn't enough. For a moment, he glances back at the bedroom door, knowing that on the other side of it is a warm body that he could snuggle up against.

The pull to surrender to that warmth is so strong that it almost crumples his resolve.

Last night, Sherlock had thought it would give him a bit of a respite from the relentless, crushing pressure to defeat Moriarty. He'd given in, surrendering to his need for intimacy with the one and only person he'd been willing to trust enough for that kind of relationship.

In the cold light of day, he knows he's been an idiot.

He takes his self-disgust with him, wearing it like a shroud as he sits down on the sofa and tucks his knees up inside the bathrobe. Still cold and knowing that the feeling is more symptomatic of his distress than actual ambient conditions, Sherlock pushes the coffee table aside and pulls out the cheap, kilim-style carpet that had been used as a rug under it. Draping it over himself, he can feel the harsh threads of roughly woven wool prickle on his skin.

Like a hair shirt, it punishes him for succumbing to his baser instincts even though he should have known better. _Messy. Complicated. Distracting_. He starts to pick at the skin around his fingernails, ripping at a cuticle until he gets the satisfaction of seeing blood. _Excoriation_. Using pain to vent his anxiety is yet another blast from the past, a habit for which he'd been chastised endlessly at Hayes Grove. Finally, he'd snapped back at the therapist that it was miles better than putting a fist through a window, so was there really any point in trying to make him quit the lesser of two necessary evils?

They'd simply upped his drugs to the point where he stopped feeling the need for… _anything_. By the time he'd left the clinic, he'd effectively banished Victor into a part of his mind he could contain, control, keep locked up, hide, ignore, never look at again. Over the years, he's let the dust settle on those places. It was clear that Mycroft was right, as horrible as it had been to admit it to himself: he wasn't capable of being the person Victor had thought he'd fallen in love with. The kind of person Victor needed. 

_Am I now?_

"Irrelevant," he mutters, even though he knows there is no one listening. His ears still need to hear that audible reinforcement of the message. _That was then, this is now_. He has no room in his life for the complication that Victor represents, or the naivete of some teenage dream about comfortable, romantic domesticity. This morning, the concept feels even more ridiculous than ever, and Sherlock has pressing concerns that he should be focussing on— John and Moriarty, in that order and invariably interconnected. There is no room in his life for hesitation, weakness, or detours right now. He can't spare the time or the energy for such frivolity as sentiment.

For a brief moment, he looks back at the door into the bedroom.  Could Moriarty have somehow found out about Victor? Is the fact that he was at Chill to witness the murder a sign of something even more sinister from the Irishman? The only person who knew about Bryony Stemple was Mycroft, and surely he would not stoop so low as to pass that fact onto Moriarty? Even if he had, the Maddox murder would have taken at least a week or more to set up, and Victor had made the decision to come to London at the last minute, telling only a handful of people.  Logic tells him that this _has_ to be co-incidence.  Victor is not on Moriarty's radar, at least not yet, and it is up to Sherlock to make sure that he never is. For that reason alone, Sherlock knows that come Monday, whatever refuge he has taken with Victor has to end, definitively.

Victor's survival depends on it, because Moriarty won't bother with someone Sherlock used to know more than a decade ago. Not when his current flatmate, colleague and blogger is providing more than enough leverage as a hostage. Sherlock had been foolish enough to show the depth of his attachment to John in front of Moriarty, who will now use it to torture him. Without the Sigurson Plan, Sherlock knows that Moriarty will deliver on his threat. John's survival has to take precedence over anything that might happen this weekend.

To prove it to himself, he enters his Mind Palace, veering sharp left, away from the memories that have been re-awakened in the night. With a firm stride and a steely determination, he shuts the door on those things, crosses the bridge into the building that houses the Moriarty annex, as he's come to call it. What had been but a shelf back when Jeff Hope had pronounced the Irishman's name has grown into a room, then a corridor, eventually a whole wing and is now a fully-fledged building. The Sigurson Plan takes up a whole floor. The _must–keep–John–alive_ room is well furnished, because he's been spending a lot of time in there recently. That's where he is headed now, to try to make sense of the message that Moriarty just sent to him by killing Harrison Maddox. Even confined to a remand prison cell, he's still been able to arrange an assassination. How easy would it have been to do the same to John?

_Too easy. Intolerable._

Sherlock stands on the threshold of the room and looks in as the answers to that question become obvious. The Irishman's sing-song voice starts intoning: " _I could tamper with a drug that is used at the surgery,; plenty of contact poisons, perhaps a bit of anthrax powder in the next pair of gloves he puts on, or a nerve agent on his stethoscope? Hmmmm, decisions, decisions."_  His Moriarty avatar takes physical form, finger to the side of his face in a pantomime of a thinking pose. _"I do SO want to be the vet that puts you poor pet down. Maybe I'll send an assassin in on an appointment and then murder him; just imagine the look of surprise when the next patient came in; well, it's the NHS, what do you expect? Or, would you prefer another bomb across the street from 221b? I'd time it for when John is there and you are not."_

The Jim in his Mind Palace strikes another theatrical pose, flashing a wicked grin. " _Maybe I should just kidnap John again and send him back to you in teensy little pieces, prolonging the agony for both of you. I could start with his cock; that's the bit you've really fancied but never had, isn't it?_ "

The _one hundred best ways to kill John Watson_ theatrical drama replays on and on in Sherlock's head, and it’s on a perpetual loop that is too devastating for words, forcing him to retreat. He slams the door on the room and hopes the sound-proofing will keep that wretched voice inside. It's always there, and sometimes it feels even more frightening than the real deal.*

Sherlock needs to know what is going to provoke Moriarty to take the step of killing John, and when. He has to find a way of stopping that from happening before he can kick the Sigurson Plan into action. Sherlock can see plainly that with Maddox's murder, a gauntlet has been thrown. Even before he'll undoubtedly walk out of the courtroom a free man, Moriarty is starting the new game, one that is going to test Sherlock's capacities to the limit. He is going to have to play along with it—a dance macabre to Moriarty's tune—until the time comes to fake his own death. 

Whatever temptation that Sherlock might have had to tell John about the plan is now exposed as just wishful thinking. There is no way he can forewarn of it; John has to believe that he is dead and gone. Telling him after that fact but before he leaves to do what he has to do is total risk without any gain. To guarantee both of them the best chance for survival, he must keep this secret from John.

 _Damn the man's loyalty_. It won't be easy to get John to leave. What will Sherlock have to do to make him repudiate their relationship? Ideally, the split between them has to be public and appear irrevocable. He has never had trouble repelling and alienating people—it's fate's cruel mockery that he's finding that such a difficult feat right now. Coming up with something like that puts yet another burden on his shoulders, at a time when he's already groaning under the weight of Moriarty, the Sigurson Plan and what lies sleeping in the bedroom behind him.

Sherlock heads to the atrium of the Mind Palace annex, where he's assembled the timeline, with all its permutations and deviations, risk calculations and critical path analyses. It's a flow-chart of immense proportions, taking a height up a full three floors from the ground to the roof. The Maddox murder changes things, and as he factors it in, Sherlock realises that it makes it essential to speed things up even if the number of variables has grown yet again, increasing the margin of error. He will have to work like a man possessed to get all the pieces in place before Lars Sigurson can start the campaign to destroy Moriarty's network.

For the first time ever, Sherlock begins to wonder if he is going to be smart enough to carry this off. While he has confidence in his own abilities, Moriarty's assassination of Maddox is a game-changer; it needs a whole new level-up of what he's been planning.

The next pinch point is at the trial. He has to take the stand and throw his own gauntlet down, make it plain that this is a battle to the finish, make it _personal._

In the calming emptiness of an unused hall of the Mind Palace, he starts drafting his testimony.

oOoOoOoOo

While the sun beam slowly creeps across the bed, Victor sleeps on. Only when the heat of its rays finally lands on his face is it enough to pull him slowly awake. With a jolt, he opens his eyes to see that Sherlock is no longer in the bed with him. _Was it just a dream?_

Thankfully, the first thing he sees when he raises himself onto his elbows is neatly folded clothing on the chair that is familiar but not his own: the black suit trousers and shirt, the white kitchen jacket. Victor's clothes would be too big for Sherlock, and he sees that his bag is still zipped tight. Unless he's left the flat naked, Sherlock has got to be somewhere close by.

He calls out, "Sherlock?"

There is no answer. After he manages to throw on last night's pair of pants and a T-shirt from his bag, Victor checks the bathroom and then the living room. It's there he finds Sherlock, sitting cross-legged like some weird Indian guru, a carpet draped across his shoulders. Victor would be amused if it wasn't for the worrying sight that his open eyes are staring at…nothing.

A hand waved in front of them produces no response. "Sherlock?"

Victor's question is both concerned and yet gentle. Last night he'd been so awestruck, surprised, happy, and smitten once again that he'd been able to brush aside any and all niggling doubts regarding the way Sherlock had practically fallen into his arms. But, sleep has sobered him up and now he can't help but consider the consequences. Last night, in the throes of their passionate reunion, Victor might have been willing not to say anything, not to ask important questions which have burned on his mind for over a decade. But this morning, now looking at a face devoid of any expression, reality comes crashing back in. Given what he knows about what had happened to Sherlock all those years ago after he'd flown to Auckland, Victor is spiked by a fear that something has gone seriously wrong. However painful their separation and dissolution had been for Victor, it had clearly been so much worse for Sherlock.

_I owe it to him to try to understand why he never even read my letters._

Victor kneels in front of the sofa and takes Sherlock by the shoulders, giving them a firm squeeze. "Hey… are you in there? What's going on?"

The reaction is sudden, explosive. Sherlock unsnaps his folded arms in a fast manoeuvre that makes Victor lose his grip. In a flurry of movement, he flings himself off the sofa, using his body weight to knock Victor backwards onto the floor. Stunned, Victor is then grabbed from behind and flipped onto his side, Sherlock's arms coming around his neck, hands clamping around his throat in a vice-like grip. His initial reaction is to try to break free, but he realises quite quickly that Sherlock is far better at this than he is. Victor's fast running out of breath, so he decides to go absolutely limp while managing to wheeze, " _Sherlock_! It's me!"

A couple of seconds later, as spots are starting to dance in front of his eyes, Victor's throat is released and he is shoved violently away. Sherlock scrambles backwards until he collides with the wall, eyes wide open in shock.

"Victor?"  It comes out as a whisper.

He leans up against the sofa and rubs his throat. "Yeah, it's me. Who the hell did you think it was?"

"An enemy."

"Have a lot of those, do you?"

"Yes."

"What were you doing? I tried to talk to you, but it was like you weren't there. I was worried." Victor coughs and winces. His throat is going to be sore.

A dismissive flick of a wrist. "Thinking."

Victor gets to his feet, but then dizziness makes him sit down on the sofa. "I didn't mean to startle you." His voice sounds raspy even to his own ears.

In the madness of that attack, the carpet had slid off of Sherlock's shoulders, and his scramble backwards has loosened the bathrobe, showing off a lot of naked flesh. Victor's lingering gaze stops when it lands on four white lines across the top of Sherlock's left thigh. In the dim light last night when he'd looked at Sherlock, he'd not noticed these scars. In the cold light of day, he can't miss them.

Mycroft Holmes' words from all those years ago come to mind: A meltdown. Four self-inflicted slashes on the upper thigh. _"As you see, he did not deal well with your departure._ _"_

Victor averts his gaze and a part of him wants to reach out, to cover those marks, to hide them because he doesn't want to be shamed by them. _I didn't know_. _I didn't know you were having such a terrible time_. _I would have come home, I should have realised–––_

"Thinking? What about?" he asks.

If what has just happened is the first sign of Sherlock having…problems…because he's re-appeared in his life again, then Victor needs to know. Last night he'd been blown away by the exhilaration of their reunion; today, there may be consequences he's not understood, just like there are many things he doesn't know or understand about what happened between him leaving for Auckland and now.

"Nothing to do with you." Sherlock clambers to his feet and starts pacing, the bathrobe flipping open as he walks.

The sight is _so_ enticing, but Victor is wary. "Tell me?"

"Can't."

"Why not?"

"You have to remain completely ignorant. It's your only protection."

"From what? You throttling me again? Or are you talking about the murder last night? I thought you solved it."

Sherlock is still pacing, but his fingertips are now flicking against his thumb. "It's part of something much, much bigger. That's what I've been working on."

"You looked pretty zoned out just now. You sure you're okay?"

That makes Sherlock spin about to stare at him. "I'm _fine_. You're the one with the bruised throat, not me. Sorry about that, but you shouldn't have disturbed me."

Victor isn't sure how to respond. The dismissal and the bristling anger is a whole new side of Sherlock. _Or is it?_ The boy who had dragged him in front of the wall in his father's study to lecture him about the horrors of his family is the same one who now solves crimes on a global scale, if the media coverage and Watson's blog are anything to go by. The single-minded pursuit of the scientist is still there: Victor can see it, feel it almost vibrating off of Sherlock. "How can I help?"

Sherlock's shoulders slump a bit. "You can't. You _mustn't._ Getting involved will make you a target. _"_

"How will you solve it?"

"I wish I knew. I'm not getting anywhere." He resumes pacing.

"Have you slept?"

"Yes. Three hours. Frivolous waste of time."

Victor smiles. "If you haven't solved whatever it is you can't tell me about, then maybe you need to take a break. A proper one."

Sherlock wraps the bathrobe tight around his torso and ties the sash. The pacing which then continues brings him to the end of the small living room. He stares at the wall, as if surprised it is there. Turning sharply on his heel and resuming his walk, he doesn't look at Victor as he passes. At the other end of the room, he stops in front of the window and in sheer frustration, grabs his hair in his hands and yanks, hard.

Victor knows how sensitive Sherlock's scalp is, and he's already on his feet crossing to him and taking a hold of those hands in his own. "Don't, please. Don't hurt yourself."

Sherlock releases his curls and sags, face-first, into Victor's chest with a low moan. "I need to focus."

"You've been doing this thinking thing of yours for hours now. Turn it off, let your brain cool down, then reboot. That's what we used to do when studying for exams, yeah? A proper break, doing something fun." He lowers his hands and takes Sherlock into his arms.

"It's not that simple. I wish it were."

"What would make it simpler? What do you need, right here, right now?" As soon as those words are out, Victor can't help but remember the song that had played at Heaven, when Sherlock had shyly showed him for the first time that he could and did reciprocate the feelings that Victor had for him.

"Maybe you're right. You used to know my limits better than I did." Sherlock's buries his face in Victor's neck. His next words, when they come, are muffled, but full of frustration and exhaustion: "I don't know what to do."

"I do."

"What? How?" There is desperation in his tone of voice that pulls at Victor.

"Nothing like a bit of exercise for a proper distraction." He uses his forefinger to lifts Sherlock's chin and kisses him, softly at first. As he feels the kiss being returned, he reaches down to pry open the sash of Sherlock's borrowed bathrobe.

oOoOoOoOo

 _I really shouldn't be doing this_.

Sherlock is appalled by the fact that he's hurt Victor when he'd come out of the Mind Palace, thinking that Moriarty was attacking him. He traces a finger down Victor's neck, finding the reddish blotches that within hours will come out in bruises. The fact that Victor hums his appreciation of the touch instead of shying away from the madman who attacked him without provocation is…quite extraordinary.  Sherlock reaches down to kiss a part of that neck as if that could make it better—a silent apology for his stupidity. Fortunately, it seems to be received well.

None of which alters the fact that making love to Victor is really, really something he shouldn't be doing. _Distraction over, must get back to planning_ , he tries to compel himself but somehow, the fact that they have returned to the bed doesn't feel like a waste of time or an unnecessary diversion. The need he had hoped would be quenched by one night of reckless indulgence is still simmering and now rising to a fast boil, having been left unchecked for over a decade. _It's just sex. I can go without_ , he tells himself, but a part of him knows it's not that simple.

And, Victor is not complaining. There is something that holds them together without needing to be explained or picked apart. Their physical connection had not begun with sex—well, not _just_ sex—but borne out of friendship, and it speaks of his ease and comfort in Victor's presence that he has never had that with anyone else. With Victor he can do everything he longs for: touch, kiss, fondle, arouse and be aroused.  As his lips kiss a line along that neck, across a chin and onto that mouth, Sherlock knows he's _allowed_. It's _safe_. He knows he is desired and he can surrender to his own desires in return.

The contrast with John could not be more striking. Sherlock feels the pull there; of course he does. But, the man's constant "I'm not gay" refrain keeps them apart, a reverse polarity magnetism that repels Sherlock physically just enough to keep his distance. Only _in extremis_ —or with utmost care to appear nonchalant—can he trust himself to brush a hand against John's, to grab a shoulder, to put his feet on the man's lap. Every move is nuanced, thought through, weighed up and considered before he allows it to happen. His physical contact with John is constantly constrained, lest he do the wrong thing at the wrong time and cross the boundary that has been set by his colleague, flatmate and friend who is most decidedly not his lover. Every time John publicly reiterates his heterosexuality, it makes Sherlock feel uneasy and guilty, to worry whether he has inadvertently done something John finds distasteful. What is it that others see when they constantly assume that they are romantically involved?  Has he been unconsciously signalling something that John would find deplorable?

He's got to give up pining for the impossible. When he'd decided that the Sigurson Plan requires John to repudiate him, he'd wondered if making an overtly sexual pass at John would do the trick, make him move out, end their friendship. Now, he's come to realise that he can't risk it. What would happen if he's judged everything wrong—if somehow John were to set aside the public declarations and succumb to a more-than-platonic relationship? _Disaster._ Even if John was to strip naked and throw himself passionately at Sherlock, he'd have to dodge that embrace. He has to, to keep him alive. Letting John _care_ now in that way would play completely into Moriarty's hands.

Sherlock is not sure he would be able to do that. To push away the thing that he most––

 _No_.

 _John can't know. We can't become anything more than what we are now._   _I am too weak; if we were to cross that boundary, I would not be able to keep him away._ He _has to become less attached, so I must tell him nothing about the plan, not about––_

With determination bordering on frantic, Sherlock gets to work on Victor's arousal. Sherlock knows that he has decided. Pushing his hand down between their hips to touch what is taking shape there, he accepts that this will be a private pleasure that will have to end on Monday morning, and no one can know about it. Discretion will ensure that, whatever happens between now and then, will not make Victor into a hostage—Sherlock won't allow another person to be added to the list of those for whom he is now responsible.

But, that doesn't mean he's not going to enjoy every single minute he can until Monday morning dawns and he must make his tactical retreat. This, what is about to happen, will be his one last respite before a long darkness. A last island of safety and comfort before an ocean of solitude. That decision releases something in him, and he finds himself smiling into a kiss.

Victor senses it and pulls back enough so he can see Sherlock's face. "You like that? Only the beginning…." He launches into a series of kisses on Sherlock's chest, lingering around a nipple just long enough to give it a lick and a bite.

Bucking his hips as the sensation sets off fireworks of colour and a taste of mint, Sherlock manages to find his voice. "I want you to do something for me."

"Hmm?"  Victor's lips are now moving in a line down his stomach, heading south at a languorous pace. Sherlock feels the vibration of his reply in a place that rarely, if ever gets seen, let alone touched by others: his hardening cock is painfully aware of the distance that still lies between it and Victor's lips.

"I want you inside me."

That makes Victor stop what he is doing and look back up at him in surprise. "What? Why?"

His astonishment is understandable; this was never part of the choreography of their lovemaking.

"Need to finish the data set," Sherlock comments.

The response confuses Victor for a moment and then he smiles, a little warily. "Does that mean you've never been on the receiving end before?"

"Yes. Or should that be no?"  Sherlock's confused by the double negatives involved, so clarifies. "I have never been penetrated."

Victor's face scrunches a bit, as if he's tasted something unpleasant. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Don't look at me like that."

A tiny quirk lifts the corner of Victor's generous mouth. "Trust you to be anatomically accurate; it's just the word is…um… hardly romantic. Makes me sort of flinch."

"I know you didn't want to do it all those years ago because you were afraid of hurting me. And, I found being inside you satisfying. But, I can tell you've had plenty of partners since and learned that you actually like the opposite role. In fact, probably prefer it."

"I still don't want to hurt you."

"Physical pain is not the issue. And I do want to know. Consider this me wanting to complete the experiment that we didn't get a chance to finish."

Victor sits up, leaning on his elbow beside Sherlock's hip. "When was the last time you were with someone? Made love to someone?"

"Why should that be a factor in the equation? Either you want this, or you don't, and that's the only relevant matter."

"Answer the question."

"It depends on what you mean by that ridiculous phrase _making love._ "

"Alright, Mister Scientist, supply your own definition and just answer the question."

"Last night."

Victor snorts and runs his finger up Sherlock's rib cage, making him squirm away.

"Not ticklish!"

"Could have fooled me. Answer the question."

 _Is this really important?_ _Why should Victor care one way or the other?_ It's not like he's confessing to a crime. "Oh, all right. Twelve years, nine months and thirteen days…and a few hours."

Victor's hand stops, grips his iliac crest. "What?! Really?"

Sherlock takes a deep breath. The gentle humour of their exchange has vanished, and with it some of his arousal. "Yes, _really_ ," he answers with exasperation. "Is it so hard to believe? Since we were together, I've exchanged the occasional sexual favour for drugs, that's all, and I assure you desire on my behalf was not involved. There hasn't been anyone on offer I would be interested in doing this with. What does that _matter_?"

"Of course it matters.  I…" Victor trails off, a serious expression taking hold of his face. "Good God, Sherlock, you are made to be loved and to love. How is it possible that you've so completely cut this out of your life?"

" _Sentiment._ Don't need it. Haven't wanted it. Messy. _Dangerous_. Too much trouble."

"Yet, you want it from me, now? Suddenly all in, after thirteen years?"

Sherlock looks away, uncertain how this is going to be taken by Victor. "Yes. I've already paid the price with you. Might as well take advantage of the opportunity. You seemed keen enough a moment ago."

"I still am, just a little stunned."

"Don't read anything more into this than what it is—you distracting me, remember?"

Victor nods, but the serious look doesn't go away.

Sherlock decides he's done with talking. He pushes Victor's elbow out from under him and turns him onto his back. Then, he straddles the man's thighs, taking a hold of Victor's half-hard cock and ministering to it the way he knows will get a reaction: he bends down and employs his mouth.

Whatever might still be going on in Victor's mind, his body is ready, willing and able to respond. It doesn't take long before his cock is ready for more, wet with saliva. Sherlock starts to shift his leg over, to assume a position facing away from Victor, but a hand grabs hold of his bicep and stops him.

"No, wait," Victor says, pulling Sherlock to his side and reaching out for the lube. "The only way this is going to happen is if I can see your face. And, I mean it: not going to hurt you, so you'll need this."

Victor squirts lube onto his index finger.

Sherlock bites his lip, hesitant, but Victor fixes him with his gaze. "Trust me. It turns out I'm the one with more experience here, so let me tell you how this is going to go. You'll be in control. You go as fast or as slow as you want. This is all about _you_." With a firm, guiding hand on Sherlock's thigh, Victor positions him over his hips, "Scoot backward a bit and kneel; learn forward and you can brace your hands on my chest."

This isn't what Sherlock had expected. He wanted to get on with it, to quickly move past the careful attention Victor is now lavishing on him because it makes him feel apprehensive and strange. When he's fucked Victor it's always been from behind, and he's been the one to dictate the pace. How does he retain that control, now, and how does Victor like this to be done? _Still, what do I know? It's all been theoretical so far._

Further analysis is swept away the moment Victor breaches him with a finger, using his other hand to take a hold of his cock. The stereo effect of sensation makes him gasp and rock back onto that finger, pushing it deeper. "More."

The finger goes deeper and the grasp on his cock tightens. It only takes a few more strokes and Sherlock has to gasp out. " _You_ , not that. And hurry."

The finger is slowly withdrawn, and then he feels the presence of something altogether larger pressing against his entrance. For a moment, he thinks through the anatomical ratios and worries that squeezing such a girth past his muscular defence is going to hurt Victor. He spares no thought to his own potential discomfort. _Irrelevant_. _Need this_.

And then, all thought is shoved completely out of his mind as the mounting pressure suddenly gives way as Victor breaches him. 

" _OH!_ "

He opens his eyes in surprise and sees Victor's locked onto his.

"You okay?" Victor whispers, desire swimming in his eyes, pupils blown and a deep heaviness to his breathing.

Sherlock can only manage a nod; a consuming, extraordinary sense of _fullness_ is accompanied by the oddest combination of pain and pleasure. His brain struggles to make sense of what is being communicated by his nerves—simultaneous overload that somehow cancels out the worst and accentuates the best. The pain makes him want to stop movement, the pleasure demands he rock against pressure, to bring Victor deeper into him.

"Breathe," Victor tells him, stroking gentle hands down Sherlock's sides.

Can he remember how? Yes—a ragged gasp re-starts respiration. His abdominal muscles clench with the first, deep inhalation he dares to try out.

Victor is smiling at him with relief, now. "You… I wish you could see what you look like. From where I am, looking at my cock in you. God, it’s a sight." He moves his hips a bit and Sherlock groans, arching his back, as Victor keeps talking. "Christ, so tight, _so good_."

Sherlock settles himself a bit more over Victor's hips and feels the burn deepen. He can feel the last resisting tightness of his muscles begin to relent, and the fullness reaching further in. He grows fully hard again as the pain subsides, and his thighs are shaking a little—not from exertion but from the intensity of sensation.

Victor takes hold of his cock again, more gently now.

"Not too much," Sherlock warns him, voice breathy. "This is … " He runs out of space in his mind to be able to frame the words. The sensation of Victor resonates somewhere deep within him. The feeling of being so joined with Victor is beyond description.

"What do you taste?"

The question makes him realise that something is happening in his mouth. A complex flavour, one that has tertiary characteristics; a vibrant purple with streaks of yellow green that make his tongue prickle.

"Good?" Victor asks.

Sherlock can only nod his appreciation. 

"Well, let's put the pieces together." Victor's confidence is infectious, and Sherlock cannot stop a ridiculously wide smile forming. He starts to rise and fall on his knees, pushing down as Victor thrusts his hips upward. At the same time, Victor strokes firmly up the shaft of Sherlock's cock to circle the fraenulum, brushing it against his palm in a twisting manner. Sherlock rises on his knees again just as Victor snaps his hips down to pull outwards, as he's drawing his hand down and around Sherlock's balls. Their movement settles into a slow rhythm, punctuated by a kaleidoscope of aural, visual and gustatory sensation. Sherlock loses all grasp on time and place, of where his body ends and Victor's begins. His existence is centred on a place deep inside himself that he's never quite allowed to take over him like this.

"So beautiful. God, you are so gorgeous…"  Victor is panting his encouragement.

This isn't _stereo_ any more. It's sensation on so many different planes that for a moment Sherlock thinks it's going to be all too much; Victor's cock is a piston that is driving him closer and closer to the edge. He closes his eyes and throws his head back, unable to stop what's coming.

There is an explosion of noise that he is stunned to recognise as his own voice. The shout is only the expression of every sense, every nerve in his body firing in a single moment, a cacophony of electricity that rips through him, not once but then again. His eyes are closed but he feels darkness edging in anyway.

Firm hands grip his shoulders as he collapses forward. They lower him gently onto Victor's chest. His own is heaving so hard to draw oxygen in while his heart thuds so violently against his rib cage that it scares him.

"Alright?"

Sherlock blinks, heart leaping into a brief arrhythmia that makes him feel as though his throat has momentarily closed down. He's still missing a sense of time and place, and the only thing anchoring him to anything are the strong hands still gripping his arms.

_Control is an illusion._

Sherlock shakes his head.

"Hey, talk to me."

"Can't…" It's all he can manage. Words are beyond him.

"I'm here." 

Two words… how can they be so comforting?  His breathing starts to synchronise with Victor's, whose strong arms are holding him in place on his chest. Sherlock feels his legs sliding out of the kneeling position, and then Victor turns them both onto their sides.  He is boneless, his body so limp and devoid of energy that if it weren't for Victor holding him together, he might disappear.

Clinging to Victor's solidity is the last conscious thought he has before sleep claims him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *It is this loop, replayed repeatedly in his head, that finally breaks Sherlock during the hiatus when he is confined to a dark cell in Harbin China. See my story Still Talking When You're Not Here, Chapter 13, the consequences of which are considered in Magpie: One for Sorrow.
> 
> And this chapter was photobombed (fic-bombed?) by my beta, whose impeccable additions to the sex scenes are gratefully appreciated!


	12. Research

When John wakes up on Saturday morning, he knows even before he opens his eyes that Sherlock is not home yet. It's a strange sort of radar he's acquired over the years they've shared 221b, and it rarely fails him. The noises that come up the stairs are usually enough to tell him that the other occupant is up and about. Even when Sherlock is comatose on the sofa, it's still a presence that John can somehow sense on a subconscious level.

This morning, there is only an absence that he can feel as a phantom ache at the back of his neck. He sits up in bed and rubs his eyes, still a bit groggy from what has been a way-too-short, restless night. Too much going on in his head kept him dozing at best instead of a deeper, more restful sleep; images of the club and the pulse beat of the music feel as though they're still echoing up his auditory nerve. The case had been confusing, the poisoning horrifying, the links to Moriarty scary as hell, but none of those things had disturbed him half as much as the kiss he had witnessed. When that big, blond hunk had enveloped Sherlock in a possessive hug and snogged him like a long-lost lover, everything that John had thought he'd known about his friend had flown out the door. He's been tossing and turning those images around his head for far too much of the night, wondering what the hell it all means.

Annoyed with himself, Sherlock and the world in general, John gets up and heads downstairs.

He supposes he should take advantage of Sherlock's absence: no negotiating about who gets the bathroom first, no discussion about whether he will or won't have something for breakfast. Sherlock tends to answer "no" but then eats whatever gets put in front of him as long as John distracts him by talking about a case. This morning, at the kitchen table, there is no world's only consulting detective showing off by updating him on case developments that happened mysteriously overnight.

It's unnerving. It shouldn't be—after all, John has spent nights away from home plenty of times when a date has gone just right. It shouldn't be strange that his flatmate should do the same, but the person involved is not the average flatmate, he's _Sherlock_!

John shaves, washes, and brushes his teeth, all the while thinking through why last night feels so damned _definitive_. He supposes that he now has the final answer to his question from that very first night, sitting in Angelo's when he'd made a fool of himself asking Sherlock whether he had a girlfriend. Back then, John hadn't known if the "not my area" referred to relationships in general, or just women. 

Given what he's seen since then, John's always thought he's had the answer. He knows better than to try to box Sherlock in with any one word label, but asexual had seemed the most likely one, perhaps complicated further by his particular brain. There had been Irene, of course, but the superior disdain with which Sherlock had eventually abandoned her, and many other things pointed to their dance having been a cerebral one and not romantic.

What had Sherlock said at the Cross Keys Inn? Emotions are " _the grit on the lens, the fly in the ointment_ ".  The man's gamesmanship with Moriarty over the bombings, his willingness to experiment on John in the lab, his callous disregard of Henry Knight's terror—those tendencies have only got worse recently. Gone are the days when Sherlock looked to John for guidance about what was and what wasn't a "bit not good"; he seems to be specialising these days in being even more of a prick than ever. When John had been provoked enough last week he'd finally shouted and asked Sherlock if it would be so hard just to be a bit more civil. It had ended up with Sherlock lecturing him about how ridiculous it is to waste time being polite.  When John had protested about his feelings being hurt, Sherlock had snapped that John shouldn't care about anyone, especially a self-confessed sociopath. It's like the man has decided that he's not willing to put any effort into something as basic as a friendship, regardless of what he'd said in Baskerville when he'd actually _apologised_.

Even though John has now seen, with his own eyes, evidence to the contrary, the idea of Sherlock ever being in a romantic relationship still feels entirely preposterous. Yet, there appears to be at least one person in the world who is the exception to this rule.

_Who the HELL is Victor Trevor?_

John is shaking his head in disbelief as he puts two pieces of bread down the toaster, pours a tin of baked beans into the saucepan and puts the egg poacher on to get the water boiling. As he starts to pour the tea into the second mug on the kitchen counter, he realises what he's just done. On auto-pilot, he's prepared _two_ breakfasts.

"Christ!" He slams the tea pot down. How embarrassingly domestic is this?

He puts the second mug in the sink and decides that maybe a _big_ breakfast will improve his mood. But, by the time he's finished the first egg and half the beans, chased down by his first cup of tea, his sense of unease is even stronger.

He desperately wants to put part of his reaction down to the sheer novelty of the situation. John can't remember a free Saturday spent on his own; it's been months since he's had one. If they didn't have something on, he'd usually opt to take a morning clinic slot as a locum. Should he call the agency and see if any last minute cancellations have produced a slot? He needs to keep his mind on something other than his missing flatmate.

He digs out his phone from the jacket he was wearing last night and texts Sherlock.

**09.19  ETA? Thinking of taking a locum slot if you're going to be gone all day.**

There is no reply. He drops his phone on the kitchen table and fixes himself another cup of tea, then tackles the other half of his breakfast. Maybe the food will deal with the headache that has escalated to a thump at the back of his head.

Five minutes of silence later, he pushes his unfinished plate aside and opens his laptop. He uses two fingers to tap in _v.i.v.t.o.r_ …No, wait. He back-spaces and changes the second v into a c and Google helpfully produces a drop down menu with a list of six Victors, including a Hugo and a Meldrew, which makes John lip quirk in amusement, because while Sherlock would probably have read all of the nineteenth century author's output (in the original French, no doubt; the guy is such a public school swot) he wouldn't have the faintest idea of who Victor Meldrew is, and why "I don't _believe_ it" has become such a catch-phrase.

As he types in the next letters, by the time he's reached _t.r.e_ , up pops Victor Trevor as the third choice. John's brows hitch up in surprise as he begins scrolling down the results. _The guy's obviously well known._ John clicks on the name and waits for the results to load. _What the hell? Thirty million plus search results?_ Incredulously, John scans down the page and sees six thumbnail images of the man he'd seen last night with an arrow to click on for even more. He's tempted, but the thought of seeing yet more pictures of how tall, blond and handsome this guy is makes him feel a bit nauseous. He pushes the plate of cold beans and the remains of his half-eaten egg further away and tries to swallow the last of his tea.

The first text listing is a Wikipedia article. _Famous confirmed, then_. But, before John opens it, he realises he's not googled Sherlock since that very first night he'd met him in the lab. He opens up a new tab and searches, opens Sherlock's corresponding Wikipedia entry and sees that it is now three times the length it was back then. He is gratified to see a reference not only to The Science of Deduction website, but his own, too. Somehow, that seems to settle his stomach a bit, even though he does wonder who the people are who update these articles. It occurs to him that Moriarty may well have read both his blog and Sherlock's site, and he shudders.

 _Back to business_. John returns to the Wikipedia article on Victor Trevor, and learns that the man is indeed a Brit, born in Norfolk in 1978. Went to public school, then Cambridge to do a land economy degree, _whatever that is_. Captain of the university rugby team until he was injured in a big match. Soon after, he graduated and headed off to Stanford University in California to do an MBA. Turns out the man is best known for a start-up company called GeneTAC, which is described as _a hot_ _unicorn_.  John has no idea what that means, so he skims forward. Soon, he spots the blue line which Wikipedia helpfully links to another page where the term is defined as "a start-up company valued at $1 billion".

John leans back, startled. _Not a "millionaire" then, just an effing billionaire._ There's a lot of information available online about the company, but John gets bored and goes back to the Google search page and clicks onto the next one. His eye is caught by an article headlined " _The Ten Most Eligible Bachelors of Silicon Valley_ " in an online magazine called Entrepreneur. He opens it to discover that Trevor is their number two. There are photos worthy of a fashion shoot, and the article details Trevor's string of conquests—both men and women, John notes—and a brief marriage to someone called Tamala Dewer who runs a political lobbying firm in Sacramento, the California state capital. Their wedding four years ago was apparently one of the season's "must get" invitations, but the article says that they divorced "amicably" only six months later. _Well, that didn’t last long._ John wonders if the wedding guests got their presents back. _A serial philanderer?_

None of this explains why the hell Sherlock would be having any warm feelings for this guy.

John sighs, realising that if his own dating record were to become public knowledge then someone might make the exact same assumptions about his habits as he's just done about Victor Trevor's. At least the guy had managed some sort of a serious long-term relationship, unlike John who has been incapable of much longer a relationship than a a few weeks after returning from Afghanistan. It's not only because of him—he knows it's because he has prioritised Sherlock over all of them, and at some point, the women always realise it. And, it doesn't exactly help that Sherlock takes none of them seriously, even insults them sometimes, and that he constantly interferes with John's dates. _If it's not with a case, it's with…what?_ It's as though Sherlock doesn't like John spending time with anyone else than him. There's a strange, compulsive urgency in his actions when he's trying to pry John away from dates.

_A bit like the way I feel right now?_

This is a line of reasoning John really doesn't want to explore right now. Gritting his teeth, he heads back to Google for more news. The flotation of GeneTac on the London Stock Exchange is due on Monday, but there is no mention on any news site of Trevor being in attendance. Why had the guy come into the club on the alias of Vincent Heritage? Clearly it had been linked to the flotation since he was there on Shad Sanderson's invitation. _Why the alias? Whose notice is he trying to escape?_ Surely it can't be to escape Sherlock's notice? If it was, does Trevor have something to do with the case—or worse yet, Moriarty? Someone has to be funding the criminal's activities and Trevor's obviously loaded. _What if this is all part of the case?_

This, whatever this is, could just be Sherlock going undercover. He'd do _anything_ for a salient case, wouldn't he?  And there is no case more salient than James Moriarty.

But…worry clenches around John's throat again, as he once again remembers Irene. Sherlock had seemed completely ill-equipped to deal with the woman's particular skill set of sexual manipulation. What John has now learned about this Trevor guy points to someone who's got plenty of experience in that sort of thing. The protectiveness John had felt towards Sherlock during the Irene debacle returns, full force. _If this Trevor guy hurts him––_  

There is still the mystery of why their encounter on the dance floor had seemed like a reunion and not some twisted sort of instant attraction. This makes John wonder what the beef was between Trevor and Sebastian Wilkes. Trevor had thrown his weight around to get the guy fired, and while John is delighted that Wilkes has had some of his arrogance squashed, he can't help but wonder why. He wracks his brain, trying to remember what precisely he'd heard them say to one another. Wilkes called Trevor _"a loser back then"_. Oh, and now John remembers the rest: _"…who hooked up with a freak._ "

He had paid the phrasing no mind at the club—why would he have? But now, it all makes a startling sort of sense. _Sherlock?!_ It seems entirely plausible to John that Anderson and Donovan aren't the only ones to have ever labelled Sherlock so scornfully. John begins to wonder if whatever is behind the altercation at the club is linked to Wilkes' attitude towards Sherlock. There was sarcasm there, one-upmanship too, and a need to put Sherlock in his place when they'd visited Shad Sanderson for the first time. But, why would Wilkes and Trevor have a fight about it now, years later?

 _Trevor went to Cambridge and so did Wilkes._ It seems a reasonable assumption that, whatever had happened to cause drama between the three men, it had been a university thing.

 _Sherlock and Victor_ , John tries on for size in his head. Victor and Sherlock, _together_.

He wonders what went wrong. If the bio is anything to go by, Trevor hasn't been back in the country much, if at all, since he left to do the MBA; the media coverage places him very firmly in the Bay area of northern California. The first thumbnail image of Victor Trevor on the Google page is of him in a dinner jacket with the black tie undone, coming out of a nightclub, looking like he's stepped off a Hollywood red carpet. Come to think of it, it's the way he had looked like last night, too. _And Sherlock fit right in beside him with those cheekbones and–––_

John clenches his fist. _Bloody hell._

Victor Trevor is Sherlock's Ex. And, now they are back together again. Spending the night together. There is something about that which makes John very, very uncomfortable. The thought of them revisiting that kiss and… A fresh wave of nausea turns his stomach. How many times has he wrestled with his own attraction to Sherlock? How many times has he repeated in public that little mantra of _"I'm not gay"_ to protect them both from the innuendos and rumours? Until now—based on their conversation that first night—John has always believed that if pushed to it, Sherlock would make him leave if he ever crossed the line like that again.

The man's refusal even to countenance something he dismisses as _tedious sentiment_ puts any kind of romantic relationship out of bounds. He constantly repeats statements to that effect—just as often as John has insisted he's straight—and in so doing, Sherlock has quashed any hopes that John might have once considered about a possibility that there is something between them that could ever develop into more than companions and flatmates. What they have is friendship and loyalty, and John's accepted that it has to be enough. Without Sherlock, he would have drowned in his own self-pity, putting his gun to use to end his despair. Meeting Sherlock, moving in with him, working on the cases together had given John a lifeline. What John gives Sherlock in return is tolerance of his eccentricities, support in dealing with other people, company and a listening ear, and most of all a fierce protectiveness which he had demonstrated that very first night by shooting Jeff Hope.

Lately, John has been crushed to discover that things seem to have changed—that occasional back-up is all Sherlock will tolerate from him. After initially growing closer during their cohabitation, Sherlock has now been pushing him away, confirming what John has suspected about his abilities and willingness for human affection and relationships. Until last night, he'd thought Sherlock to be either unwilling or incapable of allowing anyone to get too close to him.

Now, he knows better, and the revelation is startling even though it's logical: Sherlock _I'm-married-to-my-work_ Holmes wasn't always like this. Something has happened to make him change, to make him shun others, to deny himself that part of being human.

_Was it Victor Trevor? And, what effect will meeting the guy again have?_

Anxiety ratchets up and John's stomach clenches in sympathy. What the two of them have built together here in 221b suddenly feels under threat. As threatening as Moriarty's been, the Irishman has never come between him and Sherlock—only welded them tighter together. _This could be different_. Victor re-entering Sherlock's life could mean that there won't be room for John anymore.

He's _jealous._

As soon as John acknowledges that emotion, he slams the laptop closed in disgust, and looks over accusingly at the empty chair. "You should be here, working on what the hell Moriarty is doing."

 _Did I just talk out loud without anyone in the room?_ John rakes his fingers through his hair in disbelief. _Sherlock's bad habits are starting to rub off on me_. His headache is worse, and he starts thinking about finding something in the medicine cabinet to deal with it, but his thoughts are interrupted by the sound of a phone going; John dashes into the kitchen, hoping it's…

 _Shit._ It's not. It's Lestrade.

"Hi, Greg."

"John. Where the hell is Sherlock and why isn't he answering his phone?" The DI sounds more than a little annoyed.

"Um, don't know and don't know. Sorry."

"Well, he was right about the damned poison, and now the Chief wants a full report because the counter-terrorism crew are shouting about weaponised botulism and the US authorities are freaking out because they've just realised that someone nicked some of their secret stash of the stuff."

"I really don't know where he is." Technically that is true. Should he say anything more? Doesn't Sherlock get to have a private life? Can't he take a night off and do stuff that everyone else seems to take for granted?

"It's not like him to take off like this in the middle of a case."

John grunts an agreement, and rubs the back of his neck. The Work is what Sherlock does, what he lives for, what they both enjoy doing—together. The idea that Sherlock has willingly walked away from a case like this one is nothing short of incomprehensible.

"Uh, John…Do you know who the hell that guy was?"

He doesn't need a name to know exactly to whom Greg is referring. "Nope… but I've been doing some research."

"And?"

"Cambridge. There was a guy we met during a case who knew Sherlock at uni, and clearly he knows this Victor Trevor, too. Sherlock's never been involved with anyone as long as I've known him, but you've known him longer, so what do you think?"

"Cambridge was all sort of before my time… Well, I knew he studied chemistry at university, but I didn't have any contact with him then." There's a pause and then Greg suddenly says, "I don't understand why Mycroft isn't all over this national security hassle. Maybe I should call him; he tends to know where Sherlock is."

"No!" Getting big brother involved will be the kiss of death from Sherlock's point of view; things have been so sour between the two brothers that John can't imagine it would be seen as anything less than a betrayal from John. "If Mycroft hasn't contacted you, then it's best not to stir the pot. Things have gone to hell between them."

"Yeah, tell me about it. Officially, I'm not allowed to pass cases to him, as you know. Luckily last night, Sherlock passed _me_ this thing, and now it's blown up huge. You think Mycroft even knows what's going on?"

"When has he _not_ known?" John asks with some incredulity before continuing, "If he's refrained from getting involved, he must have his reasons."

"Well, as soon as Sherlock touches base with you, give me a ring, will you?"

"Yeah, sure."

The DI rings off, and John checks his message app. There's still no reply to his first text, so he sends another:

**10.38   Lestrade needs you. Case development. Where are you?**

No reply, which is doing nothing to ease John's distress. He busies himself washing up the dishes and starts thinking about how he might go to the grocery store. When the phone he had left on the kitchen table so it would be close by rings, he nearly drops a mug in his haste. Grabbing the kitchen towel to dry his hands, he looks at the phone and is relieved to see that it is Sherlock's number.

Thumbing it open, he blurts out, "You okay?"

There's a momentary silence and then a woman's voice answers hesitantly, "Hello? Who's this?"

"John…John Watson. Who are you and why are you using Sherlock Holmes' phone?"

"Oh, Doctor Watson! This is Tiffany…You know, from Chill? I just found this phone in my office and had no idea who left it here."

John is stunned. Sherlock's phone is surgically attached to his person. The idea that he left it behind, _on purpose,_ scares him.

Suspicion flares. "How did you unlock it?" he demands.

"There was a yellow sticky attached to the phone—it was turned off, by the way— with numbers and letters on it; I just assumed it was a password, and when I keyed it in, it worked. But it didn't tell me whose phone it was, so I just phoned the number on the last text message."

"Yeah, well… He must have left it there last night."

"Is he there? Can I talk to him, please? The police are all over the place and I need him to tell them to get on with it, so we can open tonight. Members are calling in, wanting to know if we're open tonight."

"He's not here."

"Oh, that's a pain. Could you talk to the police?"

"It wouldn't help if I did. I'm not an expert in that poison, so if the police are there they will know when it's okay or not."

"Bugger… We've had enough cancellations from people who've read the news. Maybe I should just shut for the night."

 _What had Sherlock said_? Maddox had been killed to send a message to Moriarty's Fallen Angels—the people of influence who were being blackmailed to be on his side, to protect him when he needed it. Being locked up on remand, facing a trial that should be an open-and-shut case should qualify as _needing_.  _If Sherlock were here, what would he…_

John realises that there are bound to be some of those Fallen Angels who will be too freaked about the assassination to come to the club tonight. If he can work out who they are, then Sherlock can start researching and see how he can counter Moriarty's pressure. "Listen, send me the list of who's cancelled before you make any decision about closure. Sherlock will need their names."

"Yeah, okay. I will send over the list when I courier the phone. Remember, though, that those names are confidential. Once you're done with the list, you have to destroy it. Promise?"

"Yes."

"What's the address?"

"221b Baker Street."

" Postcode?"

"NW1 6XE."

"Got it. It should take about half an hour. And when Sherlock gets back, tell him I want to talk to him."

"Well, there is a queue forming, but I'll pass on the message."

She rings off, and John resumes his research. Without a phone, Sherlock is going to have to be tracked down the hard way. Victor Trevor's location in London can't be that hard to find; Shad Sanderson bank should know where he is.

A quick search produces a number. " _You have reached the main switchboard of Shad Sanderson Bank PLC. Our opening hours are eight to eight, Monday to Friday. Please leave a message after the tone. Alternatively, out of hours, use the hash key and then the extension number to be routed to the voice mail of the person you require."_

 _Bugger_. If John knew Sebastian Wilkes' direct number or his mobile, he'd ring it, but he doesn't. He can almost hear the dismissive sniff: ' _People who have been fired don't tend to be let back into a bank.'_ John slaps his forehead; he's being the idiot that Sherlock would be calling him if he were here.

John opens up LinkedIn and searches for Sebastian Wilkes. John is listed there himself so has access to all the content; useful these days for locum work, and he has also used it to stay in touch with various army buddies. Sherlock has a fake profile so that he can use it as a research tool when checking out suspects.

 Is he surprised that the man's profile has already been updated this morning? Anyone getting dismissed in the City is going to be on top of their CV and already seeking a new position. Head hunters will probably have been called almost as soon as Wilkes had left the club last night. So, if he agrees to link up, John can send a message to Wilkes. He needs a carrot to motivate Wilkes to talk, and decides to phrase the message enticingly, typing: "Hi, Sebastian. About last night…. If you need a witness to report the conversation, do give me a call." He puts his phone number on it and sends the communique.

To his surprise, his phone goes only three and a half minutes later, and it's an unknown number. Hoping it's Sherlock but assuming it won't be, John answers with a neutral "Hello?"

"Hello, this is Seb Wilkes. You left a message on LinkedIn. I'm at my lawyers' place now, and he thinks having a neutral account of the conversation last night could be useful in the unfair dismissal claim."

"I can do that. In exchange, I would appreciate a bit of context."

"What do you mean?"

"How do you and Victor Trevor know each other?"

There is a muffled conversation happening at the other end, before Wilkes comes back on the phone. "Why do you need to know?"

"Because I don't want to get involved unless you can convince me that Sherlock isn't going to have problems with that."

"What's he got to do with this? Did he say something?"

"We haven't spoken about what happened upstairs at the club; he's had other things on his mind."

There is laughter on the other end of the phone. "Yeah, I've seen some of that on the news sites this morning: the murder and all that. I didn't know Holmes was there last night. Well, the murder's got nothing to do with Trevor and me."

It occurs to John that Sebastian won't know about the reunion of Victor and Sherlock; he'd left the club well before that spectacle happened. "What was the argument about?"

Wilkes scoffs. "Victor Trevor's a scumbag."

"Rather than take your word for it, care to explain?"

"He was engaged to Chloe, the best friend of my girlfriend when I was back at uni. They had everything going for them, those two, but suddenly Trevor dumps her to take up with _Holmes_. It got pretty ugly—you know how messy things can get between Exes—but it actually went as far to get her sent down from university. Holmes was involved, somehow, but it's hard to believe the clueless freak he was back then could have initiated that whole thing."

John exhales to sidestep his anger; he needs to know more so he tries to pick his way through this. "Why would something that happened more than a decade ago still be a live issue for you, or him, for that matter? You both looked like it was going to end in fists."

"Took Chloe a long time to find her feet again. Trevor _wrecked_ her, and for what? He left the country soon afterwards. Look, Watson, I don't see what that has to do with anything; either you're willing to make a statement about what Bradstreet said to me about being fired, or you're not. According to my solicitor, this is a pretty open and shut case of unfair dismissal. If he didn't like the way I talked to one of the bank's clients—not _my_ client, I should add—then there are HR disciplinary procedures that need to be followed. So, all I need from you is written statement as to what you overheard. I'm already after that other security guard, and he'll provide corroboration."

John has some sympathy for Wilkes' assertion, but he's not yet got what he's looking for, which is a better understanding of Victor and Sherlock's relationship. _How would Sherlock elicit the information he needs?_ _Lies, disguise, stating the opposite and letting the suspect correct you…or just offer a trade._

"Scratch my back, and I'll scratch yours. Ex-girlfriends are hardly reliable witnesses. I want to know more about the relationship between Trevor and Sherlock. How was it?"

"Oh, how very curious you are! Maybe not so much a _colleague_ after all, hmm? Maybe even more than a friend, suddenly?"

"Stuff your innuendo back in the gutter, Wilkes. Just tell me what you know."

"Well, Chloe, his ex, kept us informed; she had motive. Looks like it ended badly. Didn't take long until Trevor bolted off to New Zealand and ditched his plans to do an MBA at Cambridge, running to California to get away from the disaster. Holmes was supposed to go on to do his third year for the masters but ended up in rehab. Losers… both of them. Chloe was over the moon, said they'd got what they deserved."

 _Christ on a fucking crutch._ That's all John needed to hear. _Rehab?! Victor Trevor is what led Sherlock to drugs?_ _And Sherlock's just spent the night with him?_  

Suddenly, the term 'danger night' feels woefully inadequate for what's going on. _Defcon-1 night?_

"Have you any idea where I can find Victor Trevor now; his hotel?"

Wilkes doesn't bother controlling the sneer. "Haven't a clue. Not my client. The bank sometimes uses Ten Trinity Square hotel for the big rollers, but not always. If he's pretending to be Vincent Heritage then he might not want to attract attention like that.  Want to pay him a visit? Or are you just after the gossip like some voyeur, Doctor Watson?"

Trying not to rise to the bait, John grits his teeth. "Thank you."

"Send what you remember of my conversation with Bradstreet in an e-mail to swilkes at icloud dot com. And, ta, very much. If you want my advice, you should keep up the moonlighting and find a new career. Being a side-kick to Holmes is a recipe for disaster. Goodbye."

John is staring at his phone, trying to deal with what he's just learned when the urge to vomit becomes so overwhelming that he bolts for the bathroom.

oOoOoOoOo

John's in the loo four hours later when the phone goes; it's the ring tone he uses for texts. He curses and then raises his eyes to the ceiling, because it'll take time before he'll be steady enough on his feet to fetch it. What's keeping him in the loo is a case of diarrhoea combined with vomiting. It could be food poisoning, and Norovirus is in town, but if he's lucky it will be another form of gastroenteritis.  Little consolation that, any stomach bug is horrible. At least the need to vomit is showing signs of waning, but his other end is likely to be busy for some time, judging by the usual course the infection takes.

It's suddenly a good thing that Sherlock isn't around. If it is Noro, it's notoriously infectious—just the sort of thing that would have made him send Sherlock away from the flat to avoid getting it.  In one of the few moments he's had when he is not hugging the porcelain bowl, he'd texted Mrs Hudson to make a bee-line for her sister's. At her age, any form of gastroenteritis can be life-threatening.

As a doctor John knows that whatever this is won't kill him. _It's just going to feel like it._

After the first bout, he'd staggered upstairs to lie on his bed for all of ten minutes before he had to run back down to the bathroom. That time, he hadn't made it to the toilet in time, and ended up with his trousers covered in his own vomit, not to mention the floor and the wall below the basin. Once his breakfast (and yesterday's dinner and probably lunch as well) had vacated his various orifices, he had haphazardly wiped off what he could off the floor while sitting there, chucking the soiled towels into the bath. He'd then dug out some clothes from the laundry bin to replace his soiled ones, and the endeavour had left him panting. Trying to replenish lost fluid by drinking from the tap had only made him throw up once more when the cold water hit his wrecked stomach lining.

Of course, it had been that exact moment that the front door bell had rung. He'd managed to stagger down the stairs long enough to sign for the package in a scrawl that in no way resembled his normally neat hand-writing. Once back upstairs, he'd not had the strength to do anything more than drop the parcel on the desk and head back to the loo for another bout. He's going to have to bleach the surfaces in the kitchen, and do the bathroom, too. He'd decided that, as long as Sherlock isn't in residence, he could crash on the sofa with pillows, blankets and a bucket on the floor beside him. He knows he will have to wash everything, including his vomit-stained clothes, in a very hot wash to kill the virus.

When the cramping eases enough, he gets off the toilet and pulls up the soft pyjama bottoms, then washes his hands thoroughly. They've been washed so often in the hottest water he can stand that they look like crab claws. The towels and the flannel he's using to dry his face and hands will have to be boil-washed, too. He wishes he could throw himself in the machine with them and get rid of the damned bug as easily. According to the thermometer, he's got a low-grade fever, which he can add to the headache from hell and muscular aches and pains exacerbated by his straining abdominal muscles.  His one consolation is that this is obviously not the effect of exposure to that weird strain of botulism.

He staggers past the kitchen sink and tops up a glass of water. Rehydration is crucial, even though the thought of putting anything in his stomach is almost unbearable. He's thrown up too often to keep any of the paracetamol down; he won't try again for another four hours. _Physician, heal thyself._ He needs a minimum of 24 hours before he can be considered safe company.  As he grabs his phone off the table and sinks down into the blankets on the sofa, John hopes that wherever Sherlock is, the fact that he'd been exposed to John in the back of the taxi on the way to the club last night isn't going to have dire consequences for him, too.

He struggles to focus on the phone screen and sees that he has one new message. Tapping it open, he groans. _Please let it be the first good news of the day._

No such luck.

 **12:12 Thank you for your loyalty! Take advantage of Vodaphone's special deals on data top-ups.**  

John drops the phone back on the table and closes his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This article is real, LOL. https://www.entrepreneur.com/article/234521 Victor isn't on it, alas, but the real guys who are there are certainly an eyeful.


	13. That Was Then

Victor watches the rise and fall of Sherlock's chest. It's a sight he had once particularly treasured because it meant that the boy's mind had finally found rest. Back in their time at Saxon Street, Sherlock had rarely slept a whole night through, and even more rarely had slept beside Victor for any length of time. A sudden thought makes him smile: perhaps if he'd been brave enough to try back then what they've done today, it might have been different. The total sensory implosion that has taken Sherlock down into this deep a sleep might have made a difference back then, too.

He'd been so afraid of hurting Sherlock. _We were so young._

A glance at the clock beside the bed shows it's nearly four o'clock in the afternoon. The sun has moved to the other side of the flat now, so he can see the colours of the sun setting being reflected off the building behind. In San Jose now, it's eight in the morning and he'd already be at work. That's his excuse for being awake when Sherlock is asleep: mismatched circadian rhythms. That—and hunger. It's been nearly twenty hours since Victor last had anything to eat, and he's ravenous and besides, sex has always stimulated hit appetite. In an odd way, the fact that it is only now that he realises he is hungry tells him that his desire for Sherlock has overridden any other bodily need.

More important than dealing with the rumbling of his stomach, Victor is relishing being able to look, to _really_ look at Sherlock now without being made to feel self-conscious about staring.  He can see the effects of thirteen years on a face that he had once memorised. Back then, it was his beauty that struck Victor: the sweet softness, perfect pale skin, cheekbones and the dark lashes so long that Chloe had complained that they didn't belong on a man any more than the cupid-bow lips did. Those are all still there, but now there are lines at the sides of his eyes, a few across his forehead, and the stubble that has grown over the past sixteen hours adds years to that old mental image he is busy updating. This is a face that has weathered some storms. The sight makes Victor wonder about those years and what cost Sherlock has had to pay for them.

It makes his heart ache for the questions it raises. What if he hadn't left for Auckland? Would staying have meant that Sherlock would never have cut those slashes across his thigh? During their lovemaking, Victor's hand had brushed against the scars, felt the different texture, mourned the story they told him about his stupidity. What if they'd travelled together, solved the mystery hand in hand? What if Victor hadn't taken the lifeline Mycroft has offered? What if he'd stayed in Cambridge, been there when Sherlock got out of rehab, helped him back into studying? So many questions…what happened after Sherlock got out of rehab? The media coverage about him is incredibly silent on the years between 2002 and 2010. _Eight years of… what?_

If his last conversations with Mycroft are anything to go by, then those eight years at least started with an inability by Sherlock to complete his degree due to drugs, rough sleeping and general mental incapacity, punctuated by the occasional overdose. Victor has seen the scars on Sherlock's arms—a few were there when they've first been lovers, but now there are more. At least there is the consolation that none look new, and Sherlock had said he was clean the last time he was tested. Had he meant free of STDs or drugs? Victor hopes it's both, but even just the fact of such testing being done rattles him to the core. Back then, while he was studying at Stanford, Sherlock in rehab seemed unable or unwilling to return to any semblance of a normal life. Unsurprisingly, Mycroft had not been forthcoming about details.

Tempted to stroke a hand down the arm resting on the duvet beside his own, Victor wonders how Sherlock had dug himself out of all that. _On his own?_ Watson's blog says he met Sherlock only three years ago, by when he was already calling himself a consulting detective. _I should have stayed and looked after him_ , Victor thinks. _He needs someone like that, he clearly does._ Have the two brothers buried the hatchet, or is there another reason why Sherlock been doing so much better for the past few years? Victor is terribly tempted to find the telephone number of Doctor Esther Cohen, assuming she is still alive and practicing as a psychiatrist. She might be able to fill in a few blanks. He reluctantly dismisses the idea; knowing Mycroft, the guy probably has a trace on all her calls. He can imagine GCHQ listening in for that particular name. _They probably did that all those years ago, too_.

Victor could ask Sherlock, but he is scared to do so, for the inevitable evasion: " _that was then; this is now,_ " seems to be Sherlock's mantra, now. Or, he might dodge the question completely. Victor doesn't regret for a single moment what had been an overwhelming impulse last night on the dance floor, but he is now beginning to worry about the consequences. Sherlock's demand to live only in this moment, to deny the past and ignore the future is very hard. Victor's love for him has re-awakened fears that are difficult to set aside. Surely Sherlock understands that they have to talk about things at some point?

Victor's bladder is demanding attention, joining the chorus of his stomach growling. Sighing, he very slowly disengages himself from those lovely, long limbs and slips out of bed.

oOoOoOoO

Less than an hour later, the aroma of fish and chips brings Sherlock out of his sleep and into the living room, wearing the student's bathrobe again over pants, and one of Victor's vests, no doubt liberated from his bag. It doesn't look as big on him as it would have thirteen years ago. 

"Did you go out?" He asks, rubbing his face and yawning, black curls in a messy halo around his head.

For a moment, Victor takes in the sight. _Just this._ He will remember this image for the rest of his life—Sherlock relaxed and sleepy, bedded, blissed and totally at ease with himself. It's as if thirteen years have suddenly evaporated, a nightmare ended and they're back at Saxon Street.

Victor has to shake himself away from drowning in the sight, remembering a question had been asked. "No. Found a leaflet on the fridge. Apparently, the occupant of the flat is well-known to the Seafresh Restaurant on Wilton Street. Ordered it by phone and got it delivered." Victor doesn't tell him that he'd decided against going out in case Sherlock woke when he was away.  The thought that he might have misunderstood the absence, the fear that he might leave while Victor was away—either would have been enough to keep him indoors. 

He gets up from the kitchen table and lays another place setting down. "Let's eat."

"Need a wash." Sherlock is rubbing his chin, not liking the stubble there.

"Later. Maslow's hierarchy of needs says food first."

Sherlock seems to consider it for a moment, and then slips into the chair, rather languidly. "Is that what they taught you at Stanford instead of something useful?"

They start eating in companionable silence. Victor doesn't want to break the spell, but he eventually has to. He simply can't keep pretending that there aren't questions that need to be answered. "There is something you need to know."

Sherlock looks up across the table, eyes piercing, and Victor knows he is being studied. "You've been married. I know that. Not exactly a private affair." He looks back down at the plate and stabs another chip with his fork.

"I didn't mean that. Yes, I was married for all of six months. It didn't take more than a month to know it was the second biggest mistake of my life. The other five months were needed to get out of it."

There is a flicker of confusion in those blue green eyes, which is replaced by studied disinterest. Sherlock has picked up a fork and is prodding the piece of battered haddock.

"What you need to know is I never left Cambridge because I wanted to leave _you_. I wanted nothing more than to take you with me to Auckland, and I didn't leave for the States because I wanted to leave you behind—I did it because your brother forced my hand."

Sherlock won't meet his eye, instead studying his food on the plate, reorganising the contents to his liking.  The peas have been herded to the side where they will be ignored. "I'm hardly surprised. _My_ brother, remember?"

"I think you should also know that you were right. About my family. Some of which you should already—I left you all those messages."

"You left me seven messages in the two months after you left. I heard those. You didn't explain about your family." Short, terse. Sherlock is picking apart his fish with surgical precision, studiously avoiding looking at Victor.

"Mycroft," Victor curses. "There were more." As pivotal as the older Holmes has been to his career, Victor will never forgive himself for letting the man drive a wedge between him and Sherlock. "Anyway, the short version is that Betty, Simon's Mum, and Gloria who was mine, were in love. But Betty's family didn't approve and pushed her to date boys. She ended up pregnant—to a bloke named Peter Spencer. Simon's dad, of course. What happened to Gloria was Jack Trevor. The stuff he told everyone about his family was all lies. Peter and Betty weren't happy, and they moved down south; eventually Gloria convinces dad to follow suit. Betty's aunt Lizzie, who told me all this, moved to NZ and eventually, Gloria and Betty with Simon suddenly show up there, saying they'd left their husbands. It got ugly when Jack and Simon showed up only two days later. Jack takes Gloria with him, Betty disappears off the grid down on the South Island and eventually, _she gives birth_ while working for this winery in Blenheim. And that's our mystery woman! 'Gess' was never a surname, it's her initials. Betty named her after Gloria."

Instead of polite astonishment, Sherlock looks unsurprised if intrigued. "And paternal lineages- yours and hers?" He takes a number of bites of the fish, methodically chewing as he listens to Victor's explanation.

"I'm Simon's half-brother. Gees, that is, Gloria, she's Jack Trevor's daughter; at least I think so. After so long and with no witnesses we can't be sure, but she looks like Jack—I'm not calling him dad anymore. He and Simon punished their wives for their affair in a way that made them run for their lives when Gloria looked as though she was going to demand restitution. Rape…"

Sherlock dips one of his remaining chips into the ketchup that Victor had put onto the side of his plate and shrugs. "Love is a vicious motivator." He bites the chip in half, chewing thoughtfully.

"I'm not sure there was much of that involved."

"There rarely seems to be, in crimes of passion. One could say that misguided sentiment leads to a thirst for revenge and then disaster. People letting their baser instincts lead their decision-making." This last statement is delivered with obvious disgust.

"Love's a motivator in good things, too. Sometimes the biggest mistake is _not_ following one's heart." Victor smiles. "The great detective cannot deduce my biggest mistake? Losing you. I should have tried harder, not backed off when Mycroft and your psychiatrist told me to."

"I seem to recall that you left me, not the other way around." Sherlock drops his fork onto the half- finished food, and pushes the plate away forcefully.

"That wasn't what I was doing, at least not in my eyes. I went to Auckland to do the research based on what you had told me about my past. I fully intended on coming back and building my future with you. I wanted to _save_ _us_ , Sherlock! But when you never answered your phone, I thought…"

"It didn't occur to you that confiscating it would have been child's play for my brother?"

"I was a million miles away and I wasn't exactly at my best," Victor freely admits. "It all went to hell when Jack died, and I was pretty wrapped up in that. I wasn't there for you and you can't imagine how sorry I am for that."

"Auckland is approximately seventeen thousand kilometers away depending on the air route taken, not a million miles."

The coffee maker clicks, and Sherlock rises to fill the two mugs Victor has placed on the counter beside it.

 _Black and two sugars_ , Victor thinks, and his recollection is confirmed when Sherlock opens the cupboards above to find the sugar container.

When Sherlock returns to the table and slides a mug with milk and no sugar in the coffee towards him, Victor asks what's been burning on his mind for so long: "Why didn't you tell me how you were feeling when we did speak over the phone?"

"Never found the right words. You didn't seem interested."

That wounds Victor, but he supposes he deserves it. " _Of course_ I was! If I'd known, I would have come back."

Sherlock coils his fingers around his mug, leans his elbows on the table and holds the beverage like a shield between them. "No point in having this conversation now."

"Why wouldn't you read my letters or the journal? If you had, you'd have known that I loved you. I said I would wait until you got out of rehab. I would have been there for you. I have never stopped loving you; I still do."

Sherlock has gone very still. "That is exactly why I refused to read them, or to see you again."

"You can't lie to me. I _know_ you loved me," Victor tells him, and doesn't miss what is almost a flinch at the word 'loved'. "We were happy before Jack died; _you_ were happy."

"Irrelevant. That was thirteen years ago. Things have happened. Changed. Different."

"No, they're not. Not entirely." Victor gently takes hold of Sherlock's right wrist, now resting on the kitchen table, but it's withdrawn instantly, hidden under the table while the fingers of the other hand are gripping the coffee mug hard.

"You could have loved me again. Still can, for that matter," Victor tells him softly. He tries to keep in mind that of course this would be hard, after so long and after such a whirlwind weekend. But, Victor also knows that he's got to be the one to cross this bridge, to make sure they're on the same side.

"That would be harmful for you and pointless for me. So I won't," Sherlock announces.

"What's been harmful for me is being alone and regretting letting you go. I've tried for years to find someone else, but it doesn't work; it only ends up with me realising that they are not _you._ It's hurt for years, being in love with you, but I have no intention of stopping—I can't just turn it off. Not now, _especially_ not now that I've seen you again."

Sherlock doesn't reply. 

Victor pushes away his own mug, aching to reach out again but perhaps it's best to give Sherlock a bit of space. At least he hasn't left the conversation yet, and Victor can't stop talking now. "You need to be loved. What you are pretending to be to the rest of the world, the man in all the articles and in the funny blog your flatmate writes where he describes you as some sort of an emotionless machine, a detective superhero and calls you an arrogant so-and-so, among other things? That's not you. What you've walled up inside—you need to let it out."

Sherlock sighs and leans back in the chair, closing his eyes. "I said talking would only complicate things."

"Do you still play the violin?"

Surprised by the seeming non sequitur, Sherlock nods, but then a flicker of sadness seems to cross his face. "Not as much as I used to. I've been cutting back." Sherlock crosses his arms.

The contrast between now and the way he'd looked just after he'd woken up saddens Victor. Now, he looks the part of the man in those articles, never mind that he's in just his underwear and a shabby bathrobe.

"Why?" Victor's brows knit together.

"Because it's a crutch. I have to learn how to manage without it."

That sounds _odd._ Why would he be shutting off his one-and-only emotional escape valve? "I miss hearing you play. For all these years, every time I hear a piece of violin music it makes me think of you. So much does."

"I don't think of you."

Victor can't help but feel the pain that statement causes.  Resigned, he says "No, I don't suppose you do. Why did you give up chemistry?"

"Did I? I wasn't aware of that. My kitchen table would argue otherwise, and I often employ my knowledge in our work."

 _Our_ work? Would that be Sherlock and the police? Judging by the blog, John Watson doesn't seem to contribute all that much, unless one counts the admiration in literary form and some backup. "There was your MSci project, the folded proteins of toxic reactions and how to use them for fast identification. I've not seen anyone do it yet. I get GeneTAC's research team to keep an eye on related developments in forensic science."

"Why would that be relevant to your business?"

"It's not. It's relevant to me, and it's my company so they do what I want them to do." Victor takes another bite of the crispy battered haddock, notes that it is going cold, chews carefully and swallows before resuming. "You haven't answered the question. You could have gone back to Cambridge the following autumn, got the MSci and gone on. Why didn't you?"

"Not interested. No point. I wasn't going to be an academic or work for some pharma company."

"Porton Down?"

Sherlock gives him a steely look. "No. Not ever. Nothing official. My brother's arena, not mine."

"Dstl* has been a client of GeneTAC, which is why I know about them. They wanted advice about how to combat eco-terrorist attacks on crops, all about food security. Interesting stuff. All those hours we had in the lab, listening to you go on about chemistry and the genetic revolution? You have no idea what a seed you planted in my head. You'd love what we've been doing, what we are planning to do in the future. Putting that brain of yours to good use, the application of science to solve problems—you could do that again, with me."

"I _am_ doing that—I merely apply my mind to other kinds of problems now."

"Such as the murder at the club? You could be doing so much bigger things, on a grander scale, with the right funding and the right partner."

There's yet more steel in Sherlock's tone as he snaps, "That murder is just the tip of a single iceberg in the middle of an icepack. An assassination like that is an expression of something bigger, more challenging, more dangerous than slicing a few amino acids out of a gene to make a plant less tasty to a locust."

Victor laughs. "To each his own. I'm not trying to belittle what you do, just recruit you."

"I'm not for sale, Victor."

"Can't blame me for trying." Victor is careful to keep his tone light.

"As you seem intent on making conversation, let me ask you a question. I heard about the altercation on the balcony at the club, through the headset system that brought security up there. What was the argument with Wilkes about?" Sherlock's tone is provocative; he must have worked out that the question is likely to make Victor uncomfortable.

It does. Victor isn't sure he wants to reveal this. After all, Sherlock has been the one to insist the past should stay out of this weekend. "Does it matter?"

"I'm curious."

"About something that happened long ago and far away, as you would put it so eloquently?"

"It was enough to make you angry enough to get him fired. I didn't think you were the vengeful type. What did Sebastian Wilkes ever do to you?"

"It wasn't about me."

Sherlock takes a while to process that, snatching the last chip off of Victor's plate in the process. "Then it was about me? You didn't even know I was at the club then. What did he say?"

"Remember the night of the Varsity Match? When both you and I ended up in hospital, you in Cambridge and me in Twickenham?"

"You know I have an eidetic memory. Get to the point."

 _So, when you refuse to acknowledge something that happened, it's always a conscious choice?_ "On Boxing Day that year, Chloe showed me photographs of you getting beaten up. It was her revenge on you for getting in the way."

Sherlock shrugs. "I've seen them; Mycroft showed me." His tone is emotionless, as though he were talking about someone else. "They were enough to get her expelled."

"Wilkes was the one taking the photographs—that's what he told me on the balcony. I would have decked him then and there but decided that getting him fired would be better than having to deal with the police. Especially if it meant Mycroft learned I was in the UK." _Wilkes was always an idiot and he got what he bloody deserved_.  "I have to assume you didn't know about this. I read that you did some work for Shad Sanderson. Wilkes has some gall getting you to help him out of a problem, given what an asshole he was to you."

"I didn't know he was the photographer. In any case, I didn't do it for him. You read John's blog?"

"Of course I do. I get a notice of every press mention of you, every one of your cases that makes it into the public domain. I haven't stopped loving you, remember? For someone with an eidetic memory, you seem all too willing to forget that fact."

Sherlock gets up and clears the plates, taking them to the sink before he answers. "You shouldn't believe everything you read in the newspapers. Sometimes I delete useless things."

Victor rises to his feet, too, and crowds him by the sink. "I don't. Just tell me the truth," Victor prompts, placing a hand on the counter next to Sherlock. "Is this life enough for you? Is this what you would have chosen?"

"Yes. I _did_ choose it." Sherlock's answer sounds slightly annoyed. 

Victor strokes the backs of his index and middle fingers down that sharp cheekbone. It's painful _not_ to touch Sherlock every second, every opportunity he gets. "I _didn't_ exactly _choose_ California, and while it was a good thing for me, it wasn't that for _us_." 

"It doesn't matter. I don't blame you. It was the sensible choice."

"You need to understand. I didn't want to leave you. Mycroft extorted a stand-off agreement when I got back to the UK from Australia. You were in rehab; I was to stay away until I finished the MBA.  Doctor Cohen let me call her once a month to see how you were. I spoke to her on your birthday, and she told me that she was sending back the journal and the letter, unopened, that you never wanted to see me again."

"We've just had this discussion. Pointless. Long ago and far away."

"Not going to dodge this. Tell me why." Victor places his other hand on the counter, too, effectively trapping Sherlock between his arms. He's leaning backwards slightly, head nearly connecting with the above-sink cupboard. He can get away if he wants; Victor would of course let him, but instead of evasive Sherlock is beginning to look angry. Victor can feel it between them, see it in the tense lines of his shoulders, his narrowing eyes.

"What difference would it make?" Sherlock asks. "Nothing I could say would change the slightest thing that has happened to you or me over the past thirteen years. This is what I meant; talking about the past is pointless."

"I'm going to guess that your brother never told you I came back to London. After I got the MBA.  As soon as the results came out, I was on a plane back to London. I had fulfilled my end of our deal, and I didn't waste a second trying to come back to you."

Sherlock is looking at the ceiling, calculating it. "The summer of 2003."

"Yeah… Bloody Mycroft wouldn't let me anywhere near you. I got stopped at Heathrow. _Again_. Like the first time. Christ, he must have put me on some damn watch-list.  Ended up held in a squalid little interrogation room at the Deportation Centre, kept there for eighteen hours before he showed up. He said you'd just spent months living on the streets, that you were in rehab again to get clean. I didn't believe him—didn't _want_ to believe him, it just sounded like a really convenient excuse." Victor snorts. "You'd have been proud to hear the things I called him. He said that you were due to come out in a couple of weeks. He had this plan to help you rent a bedsit."

"Montague Street."

 _At least that much is true, then._ "What happened, Sherlock? There were eight years when you dropped off the grid. Why didn't you go back to Cambridge?"

"He never told me about you returning," Sherlock mutters, looking down between them at nothing in particular.

"Would it have made a difference?" Victor tries to steel himself for the answer.

"No."

Victor steps back, sits on the kitchen table. Sherlock looks tempted to flee, but he doesn't.

"Why wouldn't you let me love you?" Victor finally asks. "All I needed was one word. One phone call. One letter."

"Romantic entanglements are not conducive to my mental health… _You're_ the one who taught me what it costs. I haven't been willing to pay that price again, not since you."

" _No one_? How is that possible?"

"Avoidance is easier than you think. Alone protects me—and not just when it comes to romantic delusions."

"You've got people, though. Like John. Clearly, he adores you. It's all over the blog."

Something odd shifts in Sherlock's gaze—something he's quick to banish but not quick enough that Victor misses it.

"All I've done to John by sharing a flat and getting him involved in my cases is put him at risk. He doesn't love me; he loves what we do. I am the acceptable alternative for an adrenaline junkie who used to get his kicks out of being in a combat zone until he was invalided out of the service." 

"I meant the way he writes about you, not the cases." Victor chuckles. "If I didn't know better, I'd assume like a lot of people seem to do, including his commentators, that you're involved."

"He's not gay."

"Well, neither am I."

Sherlock's head snaps up: "I'm not discussing John with you of all people. He is being targeted because of me. It would have been better never to have met him—or you—in the first place."

Victor is taken aback at the sudden, alarmed urgency in his voice. _What does he mean, that he won't talk about John Watson with me 'of all people'?_ Victor reaches out and puts a hand on the nape of Sherlock's neck, tangling his fingers in the dark curls. "You don't mean that."

"Don't I? Association with me derails people's lives. You should know that well, and I've learned my lessons. Involvement with John would be a mistake which serves no purpose, a hypothetical with potentially disastrous consequences."

Victor opens his mouth, but before he can deliver his initial reaction, a realisation hits. "You're speaking in hypotheticals, yes, but you've obviously _thought about that_. Why would you have analysed whatever disastrous consequences you think it would have if you didn't–––" Victor breathes out. "You love him."

It's not a question. It's not a question because it makes a strange sort of sense, and it's not a question because it's a knife that has slid in, bright and sudden and sharply painful, and Victor doesn't want to have it twisted in by hearing a confirmation.

"What the hell do you want from me?" Sherlock demands, stepping closer and now crowding Victor, instead. Despite the height difference to the blond man's advantage, Sherlock can be a frightening sight when he wants to be. "I didn't ask you to come back, to dredge up all this old nonsense, to start interfering with my life. _I told you my terms_. Right here, right now, Victor, no questions asked."

"Until when? And what happens after?"

"You have to stop asking questions like that, or we're done," Sherlock announces, then marches off to the bathroom.

Victor drops into a chair, biting his lip. He expects to hear the shower being turned on, but silence overtakes the flat. It's not the quiet sort but a tense, expectant one, and Victor suddenly realises he's about to repeat his old mistakes again. He can't give up when things are hardest.

He goes to the bathroom. "Sherlock?" he asks, giving the wood a knock.

There's no answer. Victor turns the handle and realises it isn't locked. He opens it, and finds Sherlock standing in front of the mirror, leaning his palms on the countertop and glaring at his own visage.

It's only when Victor's image appears beside his that he flinches and seems to realise he's not alone. Had he been so lost in thought that he hadn't even heard Victor?

"I told you, I can't–––" Sherlock breathes out, shaking his head.

Victor wraps his arms around his shoulder and kisses the side of his head. "Then I won't. Sorry. I know you said you didn't want to talk about any of that. If that's what you need right now, then it's fine. Honestly. We have time." _We'll have all the time in the world, if I don't screw this up_. He's been pressing too hard, isn't he? They need to take it slow, reconnect before dragging into the light things they both find really hard to discuss. He should just relish the moment now that it's finally come: Sherlock, back in his arms. _Thirteen years can't be undone in just one conversation_.

Victor makes a decision to stop over-interpreting, making assumptions. Doing that and expecting Sherlock to function the way other people do is what had cost him so dearly last time. Now, he has to listen, and learn.

"You, me, this weekend, is this still on offer or not? Or are you going to misconstrue this for something more?" Sherlock asks. "Because if you are, then stop now, or I will have to leave and I really don't want to leave."

It's not as much as Victor would have wanted to hear, but it has to be enough for now. 'I need you' would have been good; 'I love you' even better, but he has to be patient. _I can't blow this a second time_. "Don't think any of this is easy for me, either. No matter how many times I've thought about what I'd say if we ever saw each other again, I wasn't very well prepared."

Victor slides his hand down, slips it to rest on the bare skin just underneath thin cotton underwear. "I'll take whatever you're willing to give me."

Finally, the tension yields and Sherlock turns within his embrace, arms wrapping around Victor's waist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *DSTL =The Defence Science and Technology Laboratory which "maximises the impact of science and technology (S&T) for the defence and security of the UK". It supplys sensitive and specialist S&T services for the Ministry of Defence (MOD) and wider UK government.


	14. This Is Now

Two in a shower is not as easy or as erotic as the movies like to make it appear, especially when both are over six feet tall. This flat's shower is an over-the-bath-tub affair and the spray of water is not strong enough or at a high enough position to keep both of them warm in its flow, so they have to keep switching positions. The bottom of the tub is slippery and they end up having to hang onto one another to avoid falling.

Victor is pleased to find them pressed up against one another. _I'll take any excuse._

The bath tub isn't the only thing that is slippery. Sherlock's mood is still a bit off; he seems on edge, and the contact they make when swapping positions is more functional than an attempt at foreplay. Clearly, the conversation in the kitchen has opened a few cracks in the façade that Sherlock had been able to maintain when the heat of their reunion had pushed them into each other's arms and then into bed. 

In that conversation, Victor knows he has made a mistake. By rushing to address issues that Sherlock clearly does not want to raise, he's broken the rules. It may not even be about _wanting_ to raise them—there is what resembled steadfast denial and even panic in Sherlock's reactions when had Victor tried to talk about their breakup. He knows he has to give control back to Sherlock, to let him settle and decide for himself how to make the next move.

There is much that is re-awakening Victor's first attraction to Sherlock and it's not limited to the physical side of things. The boy he'd come to love, the man he is now drawn to again, is perhaps the most complex person he's ever met. Endlessly _deep_ , layers-upon-layers of uniqueness that Victor wants carefully, gently to unwrap, one layer at a time, over a life-time—to become closer to one another than he's ever wanted to be with anyone else. Not that the physical side should be underestimated: as Sherlock rather mechanically washes with his back to him, Victor has to stifle an offer to help. Applying sponge and soap would have given him an excuse to stroke, caress and explore the shape and contours of this more muscular version of that arse. The two of them are more evenly matched now, in so many ways. This is no shy, inarticulate and inexperienced boy, someone unused to social conventions. There is now a solidity to Sherlock, an edge that Victor is finding both irresistible and yet also worrying at one and the same time. He's confused, and just a bit desperate to know how he can get Sherlock to relax again. 

Sherlock keeps his back turned on Victor, standing silently in the spray to rinse off the soap. Washing himself, Victor reconsiders his aesthetic appreciation of the male form. He's more experienced now with other men and realises that he'd wasted the past thirteen years looking for a replacement for Sherlock, without realising that his tastes had actually filled out in the way that the man has now done. This Sherlock is magnificent, a fact that is registering with his cock at the moment, but he loathes drawing attention to the fact, in case it breaks the fragile peace. Victor is having a hard time deciding what to do, what would be welcome right now. Maybe Sherlock wants space, maybe he doesn't. He was never been very forward about wanting anything that isn't straight-up-sex—as though other forms of intimacy fill him with such apprehension that he'd prefer to leave the decision-making to his partner.

His _only_ partner. Victor is still reeling from the realisation, and cannot understand how Sherlock, once so thriving in their relationship—even _Mycroft Holmes_ had admitted to that fact!—could deny himself all that for years. Sherlock could have all this, again; Victor wouldn't hesitate a second to rekindle their relationship. Yet that doesn't seem at all what Sherlock has in mind, and Victor is getting more and more certain that it's not just about the past.

' _You love him'_ , Victor had said about John Watson, and Sherlock had exploded into anger.

Over the sound of the shower, a baritone question is thrown over a shoulder. "Is there anything that would pass for a decent shampoo?"

"Use mine. It's a salon formula." Victor hands over the tube of Kérastase Densifique. He'd used in on Friday when getting rid of the grime of jetlag.

"Your hair is not like mine." Sherlock squints at the print on the back, with the water running down his face.

"No need to rub it in; yours is gorgeous and mine kind of boring."

"Your hair is not your best feature," Sherlock agrees. He sets the shampoo tube in the rack hanging off the shower spout.

_Ouch._ It's true, though, and Victor knows it, which is why he keeps it short. Teasing, he asks, "What is?"

Sherlock snorts. "The piece of anatomy that wants to poke my backside."

There's a good six inches between Victor's now fully hard cock and that arse and Victor laments every single one of those inches. He laughs; "Well, don't blame me. It's a reaction to being this close to you."

"Do you have any conditioner?"

He passes over the second tube. "Kérastase Discipline; it should work for you."

Sherlock is hogging the water flow as he peers at the tiny print on the back label. Victor decides that he can take a chance. "While you read, let me have some hot water." They squirm past each other and as they do, he sees Sherlock giving his cock a good look. His own is not yet interested.

Victor wonders if that could be remedied, and he knows just the thing. He takes the tube of shampoo and squirts a bit on his palm. Turning around to face Sherlock, he offers: "Let me wash your hair."

The blue-green eyes lock onto his.

"Come on; you and I both know you like it."

Quirking a lip up in silent agreement, Sherlock nods and closes his eyes. Victor gets to work, spreading the shampoo into those curls, using his fingertips to massage the scalp as well. After less than a minute, Sherlock's leaning into the pressure of his hands and a smile has taken firmer shape on the cupid bow.

"Rinse." Victor pulls him into a one-armed embrace and then shuffles back until he is nearly at the tiled wall. "Keep your eyes closed," he warns as the shower's flow reaches Sherlock's head. The tub's main spout is pushing into the back of Victor's knees, so he widens his stance to he can stay where he is and massage the shampoo out of Sherlock's hair.

"Okay. Now conditioner." He shuffles the two of them back away from the wall, taking the spray onto his own back.  Sherlock steps away from their embrace, reaching down to pick up the conditioner from the back rim of the tub and then passes it back to Victor. He can now see that Sherlock's cock is definitely interested, just not quite all there yet.

Victor squirts a palm with the conditioner and starts working it through from the root to the tips, taking extra time and care in massaging the scalp. Sherlock's eyes close again but only momentarily, because he soon surprises Victor by dropping to his knees, which puts him nearly at eye level with what he'd called Victor's best feature. 

"Don't stop," commands Sherlock. "Just let me show my appreciation."

Victor resumes massaging as he watches Sherlock's tongue emerge to stroke a lick up the side of his cock, forcing a gasp from him. The sight and sensation of it is extraordinary. 

"Hmmm. It's a bit alkaline, but the flavour of the soap isn't too bad." Sherlock takes the head of the cock into his mouth and moves his lips around the fraenulum. 

Widening his stance, Victor continues to massage as Sherlock starts tonguing the glans. An inarticulate grunt emerges, accompanied by an involuntary rock of his hips when Sherlock's tongue trails over his fraenulum. Sherlock absorbs the thrust, lets him go deeper into his mouth, using his tongue to spread saliva along the shaft. He takes his left hand and strokes around Victor's balls, adding a tiny bit of twist at the end of a stroke of his cock whilst using his other thumb to drag across the perineum. The whole sequence sets off a series of sensations that feel like a firecracker has just exploded in Victor's groin. Water is not a lubricant; the drag and friction are skirting the border between delicious and painful.

Almost as soon as it gets started, Sherlock's attention to his cock stops. He holds his right hand up, turning the palm flat, at the same time as he pulls back, releasing Victor's cock from his lips with an indecent, wet sound loud enough to be heard over the sound of the running water. He looks up and says, in a rough voice, "Conditioner should work as an external lubricant."

Victor is trying to get his breath back as his addled brain registers that this statement is in fact a command from Sherlock that he take the tube and squirt some into the upturned palm.

Complying as fast as he can, Victor pleads, "Don't stop."

Spreading the conditioner between his two hands, Sherlock glances up with an impish grin. "I was just about to say the same to you."

Victor laughs. "Yeah, I kind of forgot. Too distracted." He buries his fingers back into the wet curls just as Sherlock takes him back into his mouth.

They find a rhythm. Victor strokes with both thumbs across Sherlock's temples, then cups his fingers around the back of his head, dragging his fingers across the scalp in time to the rock of his hips. With each thrust, Sherlock takes his tongue down the shaft of Victor's cock, pushing the head up against the roof of his mouth. His left hand resumes attending to Victor's balls and perineum and the right hand, now slick with conditioner, has reached around Victor's thigh and into the crack between the cheeks of his arse to tease and stroke gently but not so gently as to tickle.

Victor realises this is not going to take long. It's not just the physical sensation; he is watching Sherlock's every move, tracking the action of that mouth and tongue at work. _God, he is so HOT._ This isn't just sex; he's being seen to by the man he loves. No one he's ever had since has come anywhere near having this effect on Victor—making love with Sherlock has always been a whole new level of sensual: heart, mind and body all fully engaged with a partner. This is what Victor has missed for so long, and with that realisation comes recognition of the awfulness of being _without_ Sherlock for all these years.

As much as he tries to wrench his mind back to enjoying what's going on, the memories suddenly flood over Victor like a tide, mixed with a dread that instead of a reunion, this is a swan song for what they once had. He tilts his head back into the flow of the shower, knowing it will disguise the tears that are starting.

He _wants_ Sherlock in a way he has never wanted anyone. The pain of their earlier conversation and Sherlock's determination to limit this, to limit the two of _them_ , to a weekend makes Victor's breathing hitch. He stops the head massage, too distraught to continue.

Sherlock rocks back on his heels and releases Victor's cock which sags a bit; he is staring at it with some consternation.

"What's wrong?"

Victor is taking the flow of the water on the back of his neck now, letting it flow over his face to conceal his expression. He mutters an excuse: "Soap in my eyes. Puts me off." He hopes it will explain for the fact that his eyes might be a bit red-rimmed. 

Sherlock stands up, slipping a bit on the conditioner that has been washed to the bottom of the tub. Victor steadies him, saying, "Let's adjourn to somewhere a bit safer."

Sherlock shrugs. "I'll just need to rinse my hair."

They swap positions and Victor pulls the shower curtain aside from the back, stepping over the tub side onto the bathmat. He will have only a minute or so to compose himself before Sherlock gets out, and he fears it isn't going to be enough. Quickly towelling himself dry, he says, "I'm going to change the sheets. See you in the bedroom."

"I need to shave first."

"I'm not going to bother until Monday." Victor's stubble has grown enough that it shouldn't rasp too much against Sherlock's delicate skin. That is, if he can get his own head together enough to carry on.

"I'm not you."

"I think I noticed that long ago, Sherlock." This makes Victor smile; whatever else might have changed in Sherlock, his tendency to take things literally in a conversation clearly hasn't. It's endearing. "And yes, before you ask, you can borrow my shaving cream and razor. They're over the basin."

"I won't be long."

Victor goes to rummage in the airing cupboard for another set of bed linen. This one is a delicate shade of lavender. _What does that have to do with anything?_ His mind is so topsy-turvy at the moment he's wasting time thinking about the colour palette choices of some unknown resident of a flat he's only going to be staying in for the next—he counts it up—less than forty hours.

Maybe that is the problem. Sherlock may want to focus only on the _now_ , but Victor can only think about the _then_ —what will happen when the clock runs out of time?

oOoOoOoOoOo

As he wipes the foam off of the razor, Sherlock considers his reflection in the mirror. He'd towelled off his curls as carefully as possible but knows they will probably be an unruly mess by the time they are done in the bedroom. He likes the feel of his freshly-shaven chin under his fingertips; the softness competes with the just finished scrape of the blade across the stubble.

He's always _liked_ shaving: the ritual, the preparation, the contrast of sensations. It was one of the odder aspects of his life on the streets; he'd been able to cope with not washing and being in dirty clothes, so long as they were free of insect life. But he'd have rather spent his last two pounds on a disposable razor and shaving foam than on a sandwich and coffee. 

On the other hand, having almost two days' growth of beard suits Victor. He didn't shave on the weekends when they were living together on Saxon Street; his blond hair grew in a bit darker on his face than on his head, but it was always soft. It made the boy look louche, a bit desirably dishevelled. Combined with that come-hither look he often gave Sherlock, Victor was always irresistible.

_Still is._

The memory and the realisation make him smile as Sherlock resumes shaving, focusing on the last few places under his chin and upper neck.  He lets his mind's eye wander a bit, to consider how age has not really changed Victor much. He's not quite as muscular as he'd been when on the rugby team, but it actually suits him, makes him a little more approachable.  His body still has the desired effect on Sherlock's libido.

Immediately after Victor had left for Auckland, there had been a time when Sherlock had felt like his body was on a rack; the physical longing constantly tortured him, worse than any drug withdrawal simply because it went on for so long. The emotional dependency had taken even longer, but he did, eventually, manage to defeat that need, too. He tells himself that he can deal with having sex with Victor now, because it is just sex. As long as he keeps it neatly compartmentalised, he can do this.

Over the years Sherlock has convinced himself that he can control his Transport's urges. Sometimes—mostly when he's exhausted but still too keyed up to sleep—those urges can serve a purpose; a surreptitious wank can lead to much-needed slumber.  Before John, whenever he'd sought that release, he'd resorted to dragging back images of his time with Victor. He never bothered with any of that when exchanging sexual favours for drugs; those served a different function and could be instantly deleted. The gratification then came not from an orgasm but from the drug-induced euphoria and then the blissful mindlessness.

Once enough time had passed after his breakup with Victor, the long abstinence he's endured never felt much of a trial—at least not until he and John started living together. In the first year, close proximity with his flatmate had led to certain impulses and intrusive thoughts arising which he regularly excised and buried back under the floorboards of the Mind Palace. ' _I'm not gay_ ' had proved to be a tediously effective cock-block. It was all well and good for John to have pontificated that "it's all fine" on their first meal together, but Sherlock doubts he's in any way recognised the pain that wanting but not having, has had on Sherlock. In his lifetime, he's learned that those most vehemently stating that they are not prejudiced may just be overcompensating for being the very opposite. Sherlock had thought that their conversation at Angelo's had made things quite clear regarding his orientation but the incident with Irene had proven that whatever notions of John entertains of Sherlock's sex life or lack thereof are strange and confused.

For their first year together, Sherlock believed he had reached a stable, dormant state with his libido, that he was capable of perfectly concealing his attraction to John.

Moriarty had changed all that.

At the pool, Sherlock had come to realise the truth of his feelings. He'd blustered that he'd been reliably informed that he didn't have a heart. Somehow, Moriarty had seen straight through the façade, chiding him with that knowing _'but we both know that's not quite true_ '. Sherlock has been utterly terrified by the exposure, knowing that Moriarty would use his knowledge about John to hurt them both.

And now, with Maddox's death, the madman's game has resumed. Of all the times when Sherlock's needed his full faculties about him, this is it. He has no time, no energy to spare for sexual feelings about John. To weaken now is to endanger them both.

_What about Victor?_  

The thought makes Sherlock stop shaving and glare at his reflection. _Not now; I shouldn't have time for him, either._ And yet… is he really done? There are two more nights and one full day left of the weekend. Should he go now, or take advantage of the moment? A part of him knows that the longer he stays, the more he remembers, the more painful it will be to extricate himself. On Monday, the game will have to resume. Soon enough there will be no space in his life for _anyone_. Sherlock will be dead and buried. Lars Sigursson will have taken his place and that persona has to do whatever has to be done, alone. Even Mycroft doesn't know the details of the Sigurson Plan, and there will be no contact for the duration. This will be different from anything he's ever tried before. Even when he was living rough on the streets, Sherlock had known that Mycroft was still out there. Now even his brother will be off-limits.  _Alone…_ _I have to do this alone._ The prospect is terrifying.

He rinses off the razor and then cups his hands to capture enough of the cold water to splash it on his face, rinsing the last of the foam residue away and tightening the pores of his skin again. Towelling his face dry, Sherlock turns back towards the bedroom.  He crosses the threshold, looking into the darkness and seeing Victor in bed, waiting for him. 

"Hey, you okay?"

There is warmth and welcome in that question that pulls at Sherlock. He turns the bathroom light off and makes his way to the edge of the bed.  Dropping the towel off his hips, he sits on the edge of the bed before answering: "That depends on you."

"I promise not to ask any more questions. Or raise any more ghosts of the past. Just come here, be loved. You _need_ this."

It's true. Sherlock wishes it weren't, but he knows his own weakness. He may project a façade of _don't touch_ but it is protective camouflage. Victor—and _only_ Victor—has always known this. Thoughts are trying to edge their way in, doubts trying to cross boundaries he wants to remain firm, warning alarms keep going off, but he ignores them. _I want to silence them all; I want to disappear, hide myself in Victor._

Sherlock lifts the duvet and slides in, breathing in all the aromas of the shower and the warm, inviting scent of a man. It is as intoxicating as a cocaine rush and he lets the chemical reactions of his body take charge of him. As Victor's hands start touching him, Sherlock is busy stuffing every unwanted memory and intrusive thought back into the nooks and crannies of his Mind Palace.

By the time he is ready to straddle Victor, there is nothing left in his mind except sensation and desire.

 oOoOoOoOoOo

Hours later, the third time, it happens with a shout rather than a gasp. Sherlock collapses down onto Victor's chest, panting to catch his breath. Their skin is slick with sweat; the air heady with sex.

" _GIVE IT A REST!"_ Another shout, but this one is muffled because it is coming through the ceiling from the flat above them.

It makes the Victor laugh.  Sherlock is smiling as he says, "Should have shouted _eleven*_."

Burying his nose into Sherlock's hair, Victor chuckles. "No band to drown us out this time. Should we go give them some earplugs?" He'd reached his own noisy climax about a minute ago before focussing on bringing Sherlock to a similar conclusion. "He's got a point, you know."

"Nonsense." Sherlock is both laughing and panting, but still manages to say, "We're only being charitable, building the reputation of the student who lives here." Victor cracks up again, and then reaches up to ruffle Sherlock's hair. "I love it when you smile."

Charles Banfield will probably not understand the looks he's going to get from his neighbours when he gets back from California. Victor is still smirking about that as Sherlock stretches out beside him, resting his head on his shoulder. It's past midnight, now, and Victor has reached a level of physical exhaustion that demands sleep. As he twists a dark curl gently through his fingers, he regrets that fact, because it will mean that he's going to sleep through some of the precious hours he has left with Sherlock.

After Sherlock has turned to his side, facing away from him and their breathing slows and starts to synchronise, Victor wonders if Sherlock's insatiability tonight has been an attempt to silence his own doubts, or to keep Victor so preoccupied that he won't dare raise more questions. Their communication has been body-to-body, flesh-to-flesh—a single-minded exploration of each other. Sherlock may have said he's not had much experience of making love since they parted, but clearly, he has thought about it—a lot, if the skill he has been demonstrating is anything to go by. Time and again, he's brought Victor to the edge, only to stop or change his action in a way that let the urge to release ease away. Like a wave that builds up as it travels across the ocean, when he'd finally allowed Victor to push through to a climax, it was that much more of a tsunami.

He's so tired now that jetlag be damned, he knows he will sleep like he is dead. Sherlock seems to have already succumbed and it would be a shame to wake him. He'd seemed so mentally exhausted, prickly and out of sorts when they'd talked over the fish and chip dinner. Victor had caved in to his demands not to talk, and he'd certainly not anticipated the physical energy that Sherlock seems to have rediscovered after their joint shower—enough to keep them both going until after midnight. He can't be bothered to go clean up; they'll both need another shower when they get up in the morning. As Sherlock seems willing to spend time in bed so long as they don't talk about the elephant in the room, Victor wonders if there is a third set of clean bed linen. If not, he might have to use the washing machine in the basement of the bloc. He finds himself wondering about where the closest place is to buy food on a Sunday, and whether there might be CCTV cameras between here and there.

Such practicalities are still kicking around his mind when sleep conquers him.

oOoOoOoOoOo

It's still dark when Sherlock wakes up. No traffic sounds this time, and he remembers that it is a Sunday. Unlike yesterday, there is no momentary disorientation. He knows exactly where he is and whose arm is lying like a heavy weight across his chest, holding him into a spooning position. 

Sherlock's body feels…different. The little aches and pains of their love-making announce themselves, while at the same time he can still feel the floaty warmth and ease of the hormonal hit of endorphins, oxytocin and vasopressin.

When they'd both been awake, focused on each other, drunk on sensation and single-mindedly chasing release, it had been easy for Sherlock to push away the thought that he is going to miss this. Not the sex, but this _closeness_. Holding someone and being held, touching, sharing. Moving and thinking as a pair. Knowing what the other person is thinking without having to ask, without having to resort to words. This _intimacy._ Seeing Victor again has woken up too many things he'd prefer to think of as dead and buried, and it's getting harder and harder to keep a level head.

He tries to focus his mind on the Moriarty evidence wall in his Mind Palace, shifting around certain variants he knows he should be analysing regarding the preparations he must undertake in the next weeks. But his mind keeps slipping out of the Annexe and a stray thought pops up: he wonders what John will have made of his being away for two nights. John seems to expect support, encouragement or at least tolerance for his own dating endeavours, but during the case with Irene Sherlock had been confounded by his behaviour which had outwardly resembled what he knows of jealousy. At Chill, John had seemed surprised, astounded, even quite pushy in demanding to know about Victor. Would John care that Sherlock has spent the weekend with him?

It would be best if John just brushed it off, gave him some inane equivalent of a _thumbs-up for a mate for getting a leg over_ as Lestrade would probably put it. As soon as he dismisses this as unlikely, Sherlock knows that nonchalance from John regarding Victor would _hurt_. That realisation is like a fuse, igniting a much more explosive worry. Being with Victor like this is having an effect Sherlock had not prepared for: it's making him ache with an unexpected desire about John, instead of the man he currently _is_ in bed with. It's fuelling a ridiculous fantasy: what if Sherlock could find the words, take the initiative, finding a way to somehow convince John to cross the line to become more than just a friend?

_Never._ He must _never_ allow that, never let slip anything that would reveal the depth of his emotions. If this was just about Victor, he thinks he will be able to stop the pain of remembering Victor's touch, remembering their love-making this weekend. He's done it before and knows he can survive that if he must. But, the pain of never, ever reaching the same with John? He mustn't, _can't_ entertain these ridiculous notions, especially not now _._ Not if he wants John to survive what is coming. The pain of losing Victor had nearly been his undoing; the devastation of losing John would be…

_I am such an idiot._ Mycroft is right. Caring is certainly not an advantage. His impulsive play with matches is now a bonfire.

Sherlock knows that with John he's had to settle for only part of it:  the non-physical side, the platonic connection. To lose that is going to be hard enough when Moriarty makes his final play. After this weekend, he's also going to have to deal with all the "might-have-been" feelings that Victor has set off in his imagination. The idea that this intimacy, this––– this _thing_ he doesn't want to even name lest it give it too much power, could be a part of his life again if he let it, but not with the person he wants.

Victor had once been that person. It's no use dwelling on whether that would still be the case if he'd never met John. His life now—The Work and John— take priority.  All that is certain is the path before him, the one he cannot stray from if at least John is to survive the days to come. On a good day, he can hold the belief that he can do this because he must, but right now, it's not Moriarty that frightens him the most—it's his own reasons for the Sigurson plan.

The crash and withdrawal from the addiction he has fallen back into is going to be excruciating because it's not just Victor he must push away. It's not just Victor he may never see again, never make love to. He swallows hard, chest feeling as though it's caving in on his very heart, and his eyes are suddenly prickling with unshed tears. Glancing down at the arm wrapped around him, he realises that he wishes it was John's instead and his emotions tip over the edge. The tears trail down his cheeks, but he bites his lip so hard he draws blood, determined not to make a sound. If Victor wakes up and sees him crying, he might draw the wrong conclusion.

Sleep eludes him for hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To understand this, read the Ex File chapter 49 called Excerpt, in which Sherlock devised a rating scale for different sex techniques, while holed up in a snow-bound inn on the way to Oxford for a weekend with Victor.


	15. Recovery

When John glances over at the clock on his bedside cabinet, he heaves a sigh of relief:  oh nine forty-five, which means that it has been seven and a half hours since he last visited the loo. He does a quick self-diagnostic check-list.  No fever that he can feel, yes to aching bowels but no urgent necessity to run to the loo. His stomach has a gnawing feeling but it seems to be from being empty, not a warning for an imminent explosion.  No headache either; he'd actually slept relatively well.

_Thank God._ Likely to have been a twenty-four-hour virus, and he's now firmly on the mend. He takes his time getting upright; no need to push his luck. A few spots dance in front of his eyes, which he decides are the effects of dehydration and low blood sugar.  The fix for that is down the stairs in the kitchen.  He wraps up warm in his dressing gown and puts on his slippers.

As he descends, he confirms what he suspected. Sherlock has spent another night away from the flat. A quick detour into the bathroom to relieve his bladder re-acquaints John's nose with the aroma of sickness. There is something very persistent about the smell of vomit.  As soon as he can face it, he will have to clean all bathroom surfaces with bleach, wash the towels, his sheets and generally disinfect as much as he can.

_Not yet._ He's still a bit wobbly, in need of both rest and sustenance, so he ambles to the kitchen and puts the kettle on.  As it hisses and burbles its way to a boil, John thinks about the fact that Sherlock has spent another night away from the flat.

One the one hand, it is just as well that he avoided any contact with John's virus this weekend. When he's been sick in the past, Sherlock has seemed rather apprehensive as to what it is that he should be doing to render assistance, if anything. The man doesn't seem to mind getting exposed to bugs or poisons at home or during the Work but threaten him with a trip to the hospital and you'd have more luck shoving an octopus into a jar and keeping it there. For someone who'd once done IV drugs, Sherlock has an aversion to GPs, needles involved in blood work and hospitals in general. A fond smile spreads on John's features; he's remembering occasions when Sherlock had cajoled him into patching him up at Baker Street, insisting that there's nothing a hospital could offer that John couldn't sort out at home. Sherlock trusts him; that much he knows.

So why hasn't he trusted John with the fact of Victor Trevor's existence? 

There is something decidedly _off_ about the likely reason why Sherlock isn't here right now. In some twisted way, John is almost certain that he could deal better with a drug relapse. After all, he's been dealing with danger nights and threatened drug busts since his very first night in the flat. As horrible as it sounds, he could understand it if Sherlock has spent the weekend in one of his bolt-holes, abusing drugs. Moriarty's relentless pursuit, Mycroft's determination to limit access to Met cases and his interference with the cases that would have come through the blog have all combined to crank up the pressure to a level that he's not seen Sherlock have to suffer before. He's clearly stressed, but that tension and anxiety doesn't seem to be finding an outlet. There have been no more bullet holes in the wall, no new smiley face, no outward expressions of frustration that used to flare up regularly. Even the violin has been all but abandoned. He is being _careful_ around John.

No, if John can admit the truth to himself, what really irks him about Sherlock's absence is that he'd never, ever thought the man would be enticed away by a sexual encounter. It's not just a question of opportunity; Sherlock's total dismissal of the weaknesses of the flesh and of sentiment in general just sits so oddly with what John had witnessed on the dance-floor. This ex of his throws a right spanner into the works of how John sees Sherlock.

As he dunks his Yorkshire Gold tea bag and swishes it with a spoon in the boiled water in his mug, John considers the worst-case scenarios. What happens if this Victor fellow resumes a relationship with Sherlock? Looking around the flat, John finds it hard to believe that a multi-millionaire would be content to live in a place like this. He knows that if Sherlock left 221b there is no way he could afford the rent on his own, so he'd be out of house as well as out of a job. He enjoys doing just part-time locum work—to pay for rent on an affordable flat he'd have to start somewhere full-time. That would leave no time for cases. His and Sherlock's friendship would dwindle to a thing that only happens on the weekends, perhaps. John also doubts that some posh businessman would be willing to join Sherlock for detective work which can include anything from digging around skips to taking dips in the Thames with clothes on.

The Work is _their_ thing, John's and Sherlock's. And so is 221b. He tries to imagine Sherlock with that…blond hunk on the couch, together. The whole image seems absurd. They'd be doing whatever it is that they're doing right now, while John was at work peering into snotty noses, arguing about the side effects of cholesterol medications and examining the densities of prostates.

_Boring._ For once, John would have to agree with the patrician sniff that would accompany the baritone judgment. Without the case work, would his life in London be even remotely interesting?  Even if he did find time in the evenings after work would Sherlock be willing to carry on with their partnership on case work if he wasn't living in the same flat or be constantly available?

Without any answers, and still feeling like his brain is too scrambled to deal with such an existential crisis, John stirs in a spoonful of sugar into the tea. Normally, he's not one to have his tea sweetened, but he needs the energy boost if he's going to tackle the bathroom. Best leave the milk out, though, because dairy would be harder to digest at the moment. He puts two pieces of bread into the toaster, and wonders if he should eat it dry or whether his stomach can cope with a bit of butter. John decides that a swipe of his favourite strawberry jam will lift his spirits more, and the sugar won't hurt, either.

The Sunday papers are on the doorstep when he goes down to check, so he brings them up and starts leafing through them. Whatever cases they have managed to scrape together recently during the current Mycroftian-inflicted drought have come from reading the papers and approaching people directly. Perhaps, if he finds something particularly juicy, he might lay it at Sherlock's feet like some precious gift, in the hopes of competing against whatever the hell that Victor fellow is offering.  Snapping open the Sunday Telegraph review section, his mood darkens. _It shouldn't be a bloody competition._   John knows he is crossing a border into an emotional hinterland best left unexplored, but he can't help it. Every time he thinks of that kiss, it makes his blood boil. What does he have that could compare with Victor Trevor? Especially since the guy's offerings clearly pleased Sherlock once before, enough to make him lean into that kiss? And what just might be _pleasing him_ right now?

John is not sure who he is angrier with—Victor, for daring to reappear, Sherlock for succumbing to his charms, or himself for giving a damn. He does, very much so. It annoys and upsets him that if Sherlock is going to come down from his Mount Olympus and dare to consort naked with normal mortals that it should be with anyone else but him.

They had a good thing going, him and Sherlock. He dated, not very seriously—that should have been clear to both of them—and even that has gone by the wayside over the past six months. Sherlock has seemed to be quite content living in whatever strange celibacy he had concocted. They were happy, weren't they? _How could he just walk into someone's arms,_ _just like that?!_

John's jealousy embarrasses him up to the point of colouring his sickness-ashen cheeks with pink. _It's my own damned fault, all of it_. Truly: why should Sherlock even think of looking in his direction? Clearly, if Wilkes is to be believed, Sherlock and Victor had been an item once.  John hasn't even managed to get up the courage to put a hand on his flatmate in a way that could possibly suggest anything more than a platonic friendship or the camaraderie of brothers in arms in the fight against London's criminal classes. In contrast, this Victor has enough balls to approach Sherlock in the middle of a crowded murder scene and take what he wants, knowing it would be returned.

John knows he shouldn't expect something that he's been afraid to ask for. It was like this with James, too. In all fairness, why should Sherlock have shared the fact of Victor's existence, when John has never told him about James Sholto?

Then again, why would he have? He had always assumed that ' _too much information'_ would be the likely response, or a sniffy " _Sentiment"_.  He's never told anyone what it had been like for the two of them—knowing that he and James were so attracted to one another, but not being able to break the rules. John hadn't wanted to hurt the Major's career, and James had not felt able to start a relationship at a time when combat could have claimed him at any point. They'd agreed to wait, to try again when their respective tours of duty were over. It never happened; James's patrol had been ambushed, his men killed; he'd been sent home not expecting to survive.  And then six months later, John had followed him with his own injury. He'd not tried to locate James; there had seemed no point. In Afghanistan, far from home, John had plucked up the courage to accept, for the first time, that he was attracted to men, too. The army was hardly the most welcoming or sensible environment in which to explore that but then again, a life with Sherlock is only marginally better in that respect. _'When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield_.'

Oh, John is most certainly angry. With himself mostly, for not daring to do more than fantasise about Sherlock whilst professing loudly in the earshot of anyone who will listen that he's not gay. But he's also angry with Sherlock for never once indicating that he was anything other than totally uninterested. For all John's been able to guess— _no, Sherlock, even I can sometimes deduce things from the evidence you've given me—_ he had been quite certain that the man is asexual. Given his repeated protestations against any and all romantic entanglements, John has sort of assumed that it has always been the case and that Sherlock's probably still a virgin, despite being in his thirties, just as Mycroft had insinuated.

Well, the kiss sure blew a hole in that theory.  And, Sherlock can't pretend on this occasion that it was just for a case _,_ as he has been wont to do on occasion for behaviour that is designed to look normal. Sherlock is perfectly capable of acting pleasantly, being charming, and putting on a BAFTA-winning performance of a lady's man if a case warrants it. That someone had given Sherlock the kiss is not an issue; John's got eyes. He can see everyone in a room focusing on Sherlock; the man's magnetic pull is quite extraordinary, at least until he opens his mouth to spew scorn, derision and sarcasm.  John is not blind to the aesthetic beauty of the man he co-habits with. The idea of someone being brave enough to chance a kiss? Not that surprising.

What cuts him to the bone like the knife stabbed into the mantelpiece is that Sherlock had returned the kiss with equal ardour.  _That_ kiss wasn't acting; John would stake his life on that fact. He'd seen the look on Sherlock's face when he'd recognised Trevor's voice, even before he'd turned around. There was no calculation, no plan there, just shock and awe and something John has never seen before and would find hard to describe.

It's made John realise what he's not quite been willing to acknowledge before this—he loves Sherlock. He loves him for the adrenaline and danger, the scent of gunpowder and, yes, damn it, cigarette smoke and blood. He loves the sheer electricity of those rapid-fire deductions, Sherlock's _I-don't-give-a-damn-about social conventions_ , his eccentricities and foibles. His life is saturated with the pleasure of watching that swirling brilliant mind tackle problems that defy most people. He's thrilled to be involved, to orbit his life around Sherlock's. Work schedules, dating, other friends—they all play second fiddle to being with him during The Work.

And it's not just the cases. He loves _all_ of it, the whole of the man and their life together. John can put up with the moods, the sarcasm, the eccentricities. He doesn't even mind being taken for granted; in a way, looking after the mundane aspects of their life together give him a sense of being needed, of giving something back. He loves sharing the companionable silences, when Sherlock stops showing off long enough just to be himself, comfortable in their friendship: wandering around in his pyjamas and dressing gown, watching  crap TV, eating late-night take-away meals, the violin serenades. They all add up to John knowing that he is being honoured to see a side of Sherlock no one else gets to see.

All of that is threatened by the kiss.

He tosses the newspaper down in disgust. Nothing worthy of the World's Only Consulting Detective in it, apart from the case that he's already solved. The coverage of the murder of Harrison Maddox made it into all three of the Sunday papers' front sections—it's not every day that a QC gets murdered, and a Senior Treasury Counsel at that. The biographies detail the barrister's meteoric rise, but not one of them specifies that he'd been appointed by the CPS to lead the prosecution in the Moriarty case.  John wonders if that is Mycroft's doing; getting the press to forgo this piece of news might have needed a D notice.  John has learned about D notices, mostly because Mycroft insisted he see a snippy lawyer who told him what he could and could not put on his blog about Irene Adler and what happened in Belgravia. 

John's stomach is still grumbling after the toast, but he knows better than to ask it to do too much. He needs bananas, rice, and a new loaf of bread for toast—best stick to the time-tested BRAT diet for at least another twenty-four hours. He could stand to lose a little weight in any case, but would have preferred not to do it this way.

As he starts putting on clothes to head out to the local Tesco Metro, John wonders what Sherlock is doing on his Sunday morning.  And then curses himself, when the image of that bloody kiss pops back into his mind.

oOoOoOoOo

When he gets back, there's no sign of Sherlock. He'd picked up bleach, tonic water, and chamomile tea among other things from the shop, and as he puts the kettle on to fix himself a cup of it, he knows what his flatmate would comment on the chamomile: ' _Tea? That's not tea; it's a tisane if you have to call it anything. Tea is a green leaf that comes from the foothills of India and China from the camellia sinensis plant. It involves a very specific picking, drying and fermenting process. Chamomile is a weed, a meadow wild flower at best.  Why would anyone think that it makes sense to boil up a few weeds and call it herbal tea, I have no idea. Ridiculous fad.'_

Maybe, but John has always found the hot drink to be comforting, and that is what his stomach is demanding right now. He puts one of the pouches of plain cooked rice into the microwave, checking first that it has been cleaned since the last experiment. That had been a rather explosive one—to see how long and at what temperature a raw egg in the shell would take before it exploded.  There was no conceivable case link; he thinks Sherlock was just bored. 

What John wouldn't give to have him here right now, mucking about with another pointless experiment.

When the microwave pings, John takes his rice to the table that serves as their desk. It's the usual heap of odd items—a magnifying glass, newspaper clippings, a book on obscure murders of the Victorian era—just some of the detritus of their lives together. 

That's when he spots the package that had been couriered to him yesterday from the nightclub.  He'd been in no mood to open it when it had arrived, and preoccupations with his virus had made him forget it.  He opens it now and shakes it free from the padded envelope.  A yellow sticky note flutters down, too. When he turns it over, he sees the numbers 7473 and is shocked.  This is _his_ birthday, April the 7th 1973.  If Sherlock had been using something as obvious as this, he must have wanted John to turn it on?

He does so and unlocks the phone.  He checks the texts and finds the last one he'd sent on Thursday, on his way to meet Sherlock for the first time at the club.

**18.44  I'm here. Where are you?**

How appropriate. Swiping back to the main screen, he spots that there is a draft of a text, unsent. When he opens it, he realises it's addressed to him.

**02.45   Check list of cancellations for Sat/Sun; likely to be some of Moriarty's Fallen                Angels. SH**

_Done that, you berk._ Sherlock does often seriously underestimate his intelligence.

Almost as soon as he thinks that, the phone pings to announce the arrival of a new text. For a moment, John's heart rate leaps with the thought that maybe this is going to be Sherlock telling him something, using a different phone—maybe Victors?

**13.45   Maddox or Watson? Hmmm…decisions, decisions. The guard dog versus the pet; first one, then the other. I.O.U.    love and  XXXXX, M**

John nearly drops the phone as though it's scalded his fingers. 

_SHIT!? Moriarty?_ How the effing hell could he send a text from a prison cell?

John stuffs down a few forkfuls of rice while wondering what he should do. The idea of Sherlock being out there somewhere and Moriarty's minions potentially preparing for a second strike make him remember the pool, and the look on Sherlock's face when he'd momentarily suspected none other than John was his new archenemy. So many emotions had passed through John's mind in those moments. Moriarty scares him—not for what he might do to John, but for what would happen to Sherlock if the madman carries out his threat to _burn the heart out of him_. Sherlock's wild exuberance, the almost carefree joy that had once drawn John to him like a magnet has been somehow darkened by the Irishman. John worries that the depression that had kept Sherlock side-lined* for a few months has never really gone away.

_Has the threat of Moriarty damaged Sherlock's peace of mind irrevocably?_

John is utterly determined that he will not—cannot—be used again by Moriarty as a way to hurt Sherlock. Is it time to call in reinforcements? Not for the first time this weekend, John wonders just where the hell Mycroft is. Should he call him? He's torn between wanting to do the right thing to protect Sherlock's privacy and worrying that something might be brewing that Sherlock needs to know about right now.

Pondering this conundrum, John finishes the bowl of rice. He's still fretting about it after he's finished washing up the fork and bowl and started on cleaning down the surface of the kitchen units, fridge and table. He registers a noise, which he identifies as the front door being quietly shut. He stops, poised with the cloth, suddenly realising that he's a fucking idiot for not getting his gun out of its hiding place. Will it be Mrs Hudson, Sherlock, or one of Moriarty's minions on his way to make good that threat? There'd been no sound prior to the door being shut, so whoever it was had a key, or had picked the lock.

The sound of two steps on the stairs are all it takes for him to know it isn't Mrs Hudson or Sherlock. John drops the sponge, wondering whether he should he grab a kitchen knife. _Knives don't stop guns._ Eyes frantic for a better weapon, he runs to the fireplace and grabs the poker, then hides behind the door to the living room, which he pushes shut before whoever it is on the stairs reaches the first landing. From where he is standing, John knows that the door from the stairs to the kitchen is still open, so he hopes whoever is coming will enter that way. In either case he's ready, lifting the iron poker high.

Footsteps come to the top of the stairs and then two strides further, stopping just outside the open door to the kitchen.

"John? Sherlock?"

"For fuck's sake…" John curses and swings into view at the open doorway, putting his arm down. " _Greg!"_

Lestrade takes a step further into the kitchen, frowning at the poker in John's left hand. "What kind of a greeting do you call that?"

John glances down, adrenaline still thumping through his system. "A Moriarty special, I think."

"Then you know? How?"

"Know what?" 

The DI's brows hitch up. "About what we found at Maddox's chambers. Is he here?" He peers down the hall to Sherlock's bedroom, as if expecting the door to fly open at any moment and His Nibs to stalk out, dressing gown hems flapping.

Wearily, John answers, "No, no sign of him since Friday night."

The DI raises his hands in mock surrender. "Let's start over." 

John moves back into the living room and sets the poker back down with the other fire irons before collapsing into his chair and rubbing his hands over his face. "You tell me what you know, and I'll tell you what I've got."

The DI sheds his raincoat, dropping it over the kitchen chair, and then follows John into the living room. He frowns at the empty black leather and chrome chair across from John and then grabs a chair from the table, turning it to face the fireplace. When John gives him a look, Greg shrugs. "He doesn't like me sitting in his chair. Told me off for doing it that first night, remember?"

"How could I forget?"

"I did it because I was pissed at him for absconding with evidence."

"Well, this time, he's just plain absconded."

"Yeah." Greg is shaking his head but looking closely at John. "You okay? You look like shit."

Wincing at the honesty, John says tersely. "Spot on choice of words. Stomach bug kept me close to the toilet yesterday." He waits for the inevitable reaction and gets it when Lestrade sits upright and shuffles his chair back a couple of feet. "Yeah, might still be infectious, so better be brief."

"Well, here's the thing. We spent yesterday at Maddox's flat with the HazMat guys, checking the place over to see if we could find any more of the Botulinum toxin H or any drugs. Clean as a whistle. Donovan spent the day with the drugs guys checking out every dealer in town to see if Maddox was a client, with no results. This morning, we went to Maddox's chambers. I didn't realise that for really big cases like Moriarty's, the Crown Prosecution Service appoints outside QCs; apparently, they can't afford the top guns for their in-house teams. Anyway, the Whitestone Chambers is in Middle Temple. There wasn't anything in his office." Greg reaches into his inside jacket pocket and pulls out a folded A4 envelope. "They've got a sort of a dressing room, with all the robes and wigs and stuff for their QCs' court appearances." He takes out a photograph, handing it to John as he explains: "We found this pinned to Maddox's wig."

It's a strange image. The white curls are on a sort of wooden stand and plunged through the top of the wig is a stiletto knife, holding in place a cardboard tag on a cord. The tag says, " _Miss me?_ " written in blood red ink.

John looks over to Greg and lets his face ask the obvious question.

"It's what's on the reverse." Greg hands him another photo. This one is a close up of the tag, and in the same red ink, it says " _I.O.U., Sherlock_ ".

"Oh, shit." John gets up and collects Sherlock's phone from the desk, thumbing it awake, tapping in the password and then scrolling to the latest text message. "This is Sherlock's phone. He left it behind at the club. Probably because he didn't want anyone tracking him this weekend. Look at the text he just got." He turns the screen to the DI, so he can see the words.

Puffing out his cheeks in dismay, Lestrade takes out his own phone and uses it to take a photo of the SMS. "Any idea whose number that is?"

John shakes his head.

"I'll get onto it; when I find out, I’ll give you a call." Lestrade gets up and heads for his coat in the kitchen. "You think Moriarty might be after you next; that's why you had the poker ready. I'm going to post an armed protection officer downstairs. Christ, of all the times for Sherlock to go AWOL, this is not one of them." Lestrade is halfway down the stairs when he looks back at John. "Sherlock needs just as much protection as you do, if not more. Stop dithering and call Mycroft. If you won't, I will."

oOoOoOoOoOo  


"Hello, Doctor Watson. How may I help you?"

"You can tell your boss to get off his arse and pay attention," John replies brusquely. He's used to the contralto voice of Mycroft's assistant but in no mood for anything remotely like polite.

There is a momentary silence on the phone before a slightly scandalised tone of voice replies, "You seem to be in something of a state, Doctor. What is the problem?"

"Put me through to him. I need to talk to Mycroft, _now_."

"That is not possible at the moment; he is out of the country and not contactable."

John wonders if this is the reason why Mycroft has been noticeable by his absence. "Then when will he be? Minutes? Hours? Hmm? _Days_? By which time it may well be too bloody late. You do know, I assume, that Moriarty has just murdered the Prosecution's barrister?"

"Of course we are aware of what happened on Friday night, but I can't say how long it will take for Mister Holmes to respond to your request. It may well depend on the specifics of your problem. If you would care to explain the nature of your emergency?"

There is something of a long-suffering patience in her voice that rubs John up the wrong way. "I don't know how much of an emergency this is, and that is part of the problem. Do you have eyes on Sherlock now? Do you know where he is? Is he safe?"

"Bear with me for a moment; I'm going to need to put you on hold."

John glares at his phone in disbelief. Her stock secretarial phrases make him feel like he's on the phone to some call-centre. At least there's no wretched music playing to be interrupted by some patronising recorded message telling him his call is valued and that it will be answered shortly.  He works out some of his frustration by pacing back and forth between the kitchen and the desk while he waits.

"Doctor Watson?"

"Yes, I'm still here."

"By what limited means we have available to us, Sherlock is at 221b."

"Nope." John pops the P with a Sherlockian emphasis. "His phone is, but _he_ hasn't been since Friday. So, Moriarty is killing the prosecution and sending threatening messages to Sherlock but you somehow have taken him off your surveillance grid. Care to explain that one to me?"

"I suggest you ask Sherlock that question when you next see him. It wasn't our choice, I can assure you."

_What?!_   John is dumbfounded. "How long has this been going on?"

"I couldn't possibly say. It is not my place, Doctor Watson, as you well know."

"Well, tell your boss that it's all the more reason that I need to see him _now._ Or at least get him on the phone. _"_  

"I can pass that message on, but I should warn you that it might take some time before there is a response."

oOoOoOoOoOo  


When that response comes, the call catches John on his hands and knees in the bathroom, working out his anger and frustration on the tiles. The place reeks of bleach, but that is better than the smell of vomit. The adrenaline of anger has done much to improve how he feels. It must be compensating for the general weakness and malaise that he would otherwise have felt in the aftermath of the virus. A paracetamol and another bowl of plain rice have helped, too, as has a banana.

He thumbs his phone on and sits down on the closed lid of the toilet.

"Hello, Mycroft. What the hell is going on?"

"I was about to ask you the same, John. You rang me, I seem to recall." This last phrase is uttered with the man's usual level of sarcasm.

"Moriarty is killing people and sending threatening messages addressed to Sherlock who's vanished, and you seem unperturbed by all of that."

"My hands are somewhat tied in this matter, as I believe you are aware."

"Does this go all the way back to your… let's say _spat_ here at Baker Street?"*

"I am not accustomed to losing my temper with Sherlock. Starting from that occasion, he is no longer my problem. Officially I am recused from the Moriarty _situation_ , and I am unable to access any information regarding my brother's whereabouts or his communications."

Mycroft's dismissive tone makes John suspect those facts might be a relief for the older Holmes. _He must be pretty royally pissed off, still_.

This also means that NotAnthea's tracking of Sherlock's phone may have broken some of the rules currently constraining Mycroft's actions. It also means that Mycroft probably hadn't been alerted to John's Google searches for information about Victor Trevor. This calms John down a little: he _is_ being taken seriously even if Mycroft isn't instantly stomping to action. "Well, this is another fine mess, then. If you can still track his phone if need be, you can use other means to find him, can't you?"

"His known bolt-holes have been searched since your initial phone call. A training exercise, I can assure anyone who cares to argue. All of those locations were established to be empty; no signs of recent access."

This doesn't surprise John. After all, he knows who Sherlock is with, and doubts that Victor Trevor would fancy having a tryst in some musty clock tower.

John decides it's time to ask Big Brother what he knows about Sherlock's love life. "Does the name Victor Trevor mean anything to you?"

There is a sharp intake of breath that Mycroft does not bother to conceal. It startles John; it's rare to get such a reaction out of the older Holmes.

It tells John _volumes_.

"Where did you hear that name?" Mycroft's tone is hurried, almost clipped.

"On Friday night, when I _met_ the guy. He was at the nightclub where Maddox was killed. From what I can tell, it's pure coincidence."

"Victor Trevor is on a watch-list. He is not supposed to be in the UK, not _ever_. Before I left the country, I checked that he was not intending to come to the UK for the flotation. He knows _better_..." This last word is almost growled. 

_So that's why he was using an alias._ "He was calling himself Vincent Heritage. The bank that is involved in his company's stock market float on Monday took him to the night club. I saw him upstairs when he had an argument with a bank employee and security was called. Later, he waltzed right onto the crime scene. It was…quite a reunion."

"You suspect Victor Trevor has something to do with Sherlock's disappearance?" Mycroft presses. "Tell me everything."

"Not much to tell. Sherlock went into the back of what I assume was Trevor's limo after packing me off in a taxi back to Baker Street. I haven't seen him since. He deliberately left his phone behind at the club, and I've got it now. Tried Wilkes—the bank guy he argued with—but he didn't know where the bank's hosting this guy for the weekend."

"Vincent Heritage, you said?" Mycroft verifies, and covers his phone to bark some orders to someone.

When he returns to the call, John decides he has to be fair here. "Maybe it's a good thing. Shacking up with an old boyfriend who nobody even knows is in London, for a bit of a dirty weekend might give Sherlock some protection if Moriarty's minions are planning something."

" _No_ , John," Mycroft counters him sternly. "This is _not_ good news. Not in any way, shape, or form, not in _any_ circumstances. In some respects, Victor Trevor is worse than any threat that Moriarty could possibly pose even at this stage."

John's heart sinks. "What?! Why?"

"I shall bring you up to date later; right now, the priority is finding the two of them. Rest assured that, this _is_ now within my remit. As soon as I find out anything, I will contact you again." This is said with an almost haunted urgency in his tone. "Goodbye for now, John." Mycroft rings off.

Is it the smell of the bleach, a remnant of the virus, or just plain fear that makes John's stomach cramp again? He doesn't remember anything rousing such a reaction out of the older Holmes, and he is now, more than ever, wondering: who the _hell_ is Victor Trevor?

When John makes it back into the living room, a glance down through the window reveals the figure of a police officer now stationed on the front step, back to the door, guarding him. John decides he'd better call Mrs Hudson and tell her to stay another night at her sister's place. This time the threat is more than just a virus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "spat" to which John refers is covering in the Fallen Angel series (the Sigurson Plan in its entirety) in Chapter 8 of Sowing Dissent. And it was a rather explosive example of just how far brotherly relations have plunged.


	16. Wake Up

When Sherlock wakes up, he is instantly aware that he is alone in the bed.  He misses the warmth of Victor, the weight and heft of the man's arms around him.  It's disconcerting how quickly he has re-acclimatised to having another body next to him in bed. He sits up, and looks around for the clock. He's shocked to see that it's almost eleven thirty; he can't remember the last time he'd slept for so long. When he shifts his legs to the side of the bed, various aches and pains remind him that there had been a cost to the biochemistry responsible for being so dead to the world. After a brief pit stop in the bathroom, he puts on the student's bathrobe again and wonders into the living room. 

Victor is dressed in casual clothes, in the kitchen area cooking what smells like bacon and eggs.

"Good morning." 

It's quite a cheery greeting. Sherlock comes up behind him and opens the fridge. "You've been shopping."

"Well, it was that or starve to death."

Victor flips two eggs over but Sherlock notices that he skips one, assuming perhaps that Sherlock still prefers his as what an American would call sunny side up.

After drinking straight from the opened orange juice carton, Sherlock thinks about that shopping expedition. "Did you take precautions?"

"Relax; I won't have appeared on any CCTV. It's raining out, so I used your umbrella trick and the anorak with the hood pulled up.  Went down the back way along Hide Place and over to the Pimlico Grocery on Vauxhall Bridge Road. The cameras there are all on the traffic, catching the number plates of the cars entering the congestion charge zone. I got us enough for breakfast, lunch and dinner. And a bottle of wine."

"Do you cook at your home in California?"

"Not as much as I would like. I tend to do a lot of dinners or lunches out for GeneTac; home is more about healthy stuff. It's just that living alone means I end up with a lot of leftovers when I buy ingredients. "

"After Monday, you'll be wealthy enough to have a live-in cook."

"I'm wealthy enough to do that now, if I wanted to, but I don't."

"Why not?" Sherlock asks idly, curious about Victor's chosen lifestyle.

Victor plates up the food and puts it on the table. "Get your chops around that."

"I'm not hungry."

"You always say that. Keep me company; if you haven't eaten it all before I get done, then I'll have yours, too." He smirks, "The rate we burned calories last night means I'm ravenous."

"It can't be that much of a rarity, if the West Coast gossip columns are anything to go by." As soon as the slightly snide comment has escaped, Sherlock wonders if it is wise to admit that he reads those stories. He decides not to say he has a Google News alert set up to tell him anytime the name _Victor Trevor_ appears in print.

When he lifts his eyes from his plate to Sherlock's, Victor isn't hiding his surprise. "I'm not the only one keeping tabs, then? Don't believe everything you read. Most magazines are in the business of selling fantasies, so they make stuff up. I just can't seem to find the right person to spend the rest of my life with." Chewing a bite of his egg and then swallowing, he adds, "Maybe that's because I'm looking at him right now."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Not going there, remember? Cease fire or you'll force me into retreating."

When Victor returns his attention to his plate, Sherlock picks up a piece of crispy streaky bacon with his fingers and nibbles at it. "So, come Monday, what are you going to do with all this wealth? What's the point of it all?"

"It's not about making money, Sherlock. It's about getting science out of the labs and into the hands of the farmers that need it. The big agro chemical companies are all into gene stuff as a way of selling more to the big agricultural businesses. Where it would really make a difference is getting gene-edited seeds to subsistence farmers, the ones whose hundred square meter plots feed their families. They need drought-resistant crops even more.  They need food that is resistant to the plagues of bugs, viruses and fungi that attack their plots. They can't afford the irrigation, pesticides and other weapons at big agro's disposal. It's being made worse when the likes of Monsanto hide behind their patents on gene-edited seeds, putting prices so high that it's out of reach for the majority of the world's farmers."

"And you are going to be the great benefactor to change that." Sherlock licks his fingers and picks up another piece of bacon.

The toaster pops, so Victor gets up. Dropping a slice on Sherlock's plate as well as his own, he sits back down and starts buttering his while it's still warm. "Yeah. Trying to, anyway. That's the whole point of raising capital. It goes into a fund to support projects willing to go off-patent, open access, so everyone benefits."

"Will your new shareholders agree to that?"

Victor smirks. "I'm doing the Silicon Valley trick. If it's good enough for Zuckerman at Facebook, who am I to argue? Shares being offered have only one voting right per share, whereas mine have ten; they're not going to outweigh my own holding. I'm still in charge. My values and priorities are what matter. If they don't like the return, well, tough; better go invest somewhere else."

Sherlock looks down at his plate and realises that he's eaten all of the bacon. Frowning, he butters the toast, cuts a narrow rectangular piece and pokes the end of it into the yolk of his egg. The fact that he can't gauge whether he's hungry or not means that he's slightly on edge, baseline anxiety increased but not so much that he can't manage a conversation that skirts some riskier topics. Topics such as a future.

Victor is almost done with his two eggs, and his bacon is gone, too. He gets up to put another slice of bread in the toaster. "Want another one?"

"No."

When he takes his seat again, Victor takes a big swallow of tea and then nods, as if to himself. "You should know something."

"What?"

"On Monday, you'll also benefit from the flotation."

"I don't understand."

Victor snorts, the edge of his smile bitter. "No, I don't suppose Mycroft ever told you. Christ, if he kept from you my coming back to the UK in 2003, then I'm not surprised he wouldn't pass anything else on."

Sherlock is confused, but before he can voice a question, Victor sits back from his plate, puts his elbows on the table and clasps his hands together. "When I bought out the other two students' share of the company, I put ten percent of the shares in your name. Sent the legal stuff to Mycroft and told him to put it in that trust fund of yours. I had no idea at the time whether he was still playing paymaster and keeping it all away from you, but it only seemed fair."

Sherlock's anger is thirteen years old but still bright as it flares into life. Its object: both his brother and Victor. Mycroft, because for some unfathomable reason after doing his damnedest to separate the two of them, had seen fit to tie Victor to him financially without his permission. Victor, for making assumptions about Sherlock's financial future without bothering to ask. Not that he would have responded if he had, but still… Other people making decisions on his behalf always pisses him off.

"Why?! Why would you even think that I had any interest in your company?"

The toaster pops, but this time Victor stays put. "Because if it wasn't for you, Sherlock, none of it would have ever happened. I wouldn't have gone to business school, and GeneTAC would never have happened, at least not under my control. You were the spark, the cause. I'd be selling tractors in Norfolk if it hadn't been for you. What we talked about during all those hours in the lab changed me, for the better. You opened my eyes to what was possible.  I set those shares aside in your name because I wanted there to be a time—when you were better—when you could consider working with me again. It was also a way of recognising that together we could make a difference. I wasn't prepared to let that dream go. Not then…" He tilts his chair back on two legs so he can just reach the toaster on the kitchen counter behind him. Grabbing the slice of toast, Victor drops it on his plate and reaches for the butter as he concludes "…not now."

"Mycroft no longer controls access to my Trust Fund. I have people who look after it for me; I'm not interested in what's in it, or any of the details. It's all so boring; I don't even bother to keep track of my bank balance. I don't need anything from you."

Victor purses his slips as he cuts the toast. "Didn't think so. Doesn't matter. It's yours."

"I'm not going to work for you, Victor. My work is here."

"Work _with,_ not _for_. That brain of yours could be tackling a mass murderer guilty of killing millions: starvation and his henchman, malnutrition. Those forensic skills of yours could get to grips with problems like the mystery of why almost half the world's banana plantations are facing ruin from the one-two-three punch of a deadly disease called Tropical Race 4 caused by the Fusarium fungus, a lethal bacterial infection called Xanthomonas wilt and a virus called Banana Bunchy Top; it's a member of the _Nanoviridae_ family, if you're wondering.  In this case, your work would be preventing death, not just for the plants but for the families that depend on them for food and their livelihood."

Sherlock detests having to listen to what sounds like a speech Victor might give to an investor. "That's a crime of a different sort, caused mostly by greed.  Companies selling consumers have done stupid things, all in the name of profit. Nearly all of the bananas in the world are now just one type, the Cavendish variety, because they've convinced people that is what they want to buy.  Single clonal varieties that are the basis of most commercial agriculture production are prone to mass extinction."

"Exactly. You would make a difference to the survival of a species, as well as helping humanity."

Sherlock shakes his head. "You always had an over-inflated view of my skills as a chemist."

"Perhaps I listened to Cambridge University's chemistry professor when he said he thought you were capable of a Nobel Prize."

Sherlock pushes his plate away; the half-eaten egg is now congealing a bit as it grows colder. "You need to stop fantasising. I am a Consulting Detective, the only one in the world. Go find other young idealistic biochemists to work for you. I don't fit into that category—never did, never will. Academia or corporate, doesn't matter—not my area."

Victor pulls Sherlock's plate across and in short order demolishes the rest of the egg.  When he's done, he gets up and puts their dirty dishes into the sink with the frying pan.  He walks around the kitchen table and takes Sherlock by the hand. "Come sit with me."

Reluctantly, Sherlock follows.

Victor settles onto the sofa, pats the space beside him. "Come on. Just chill for a while, okay?"

Sherlock is wary but sits at the opposite end. Victor rolls his eyes and then reaches down to collect Sherlock's feet, pulling them into his lap. "If you're not going to let me play with your hair, then give me your feet." He starts to massage the soles.

Sherlock allows his eyes to drift closed, surrenders to the sensation. No one has ever known as intuitively as Victor has exactly where and how his body needs to be touched. His are not the careful, constrained occasions when John dares to close the distance between them in a way that won't make his staunchly announced heterosexuality suspect.

Victor laughs. "Do you remember the time that you got cramp in your instep so bad that you nearly ended up in the ditch by the golf course?"

"Of course I do. It was the only reason why you won the time trial that day."

Victor's broad hands move up to Sherlock's heels and ankles, pressing and caressing and kneading and stretching. "I still ride a bicycle to work sometimes; the Bay area has lots of bike lanes and trails. Have you done any more?"

"I did a stint as a cycle courier once, for a case. But I've spent more time on a motorbike."

"Oh?!" Victor sounds surprised. "Oh my god... _You_ , in a biker's black leathers. What I'd give to see that."

"Don't be soppy."

"I'm not. Just the thought of it makes me hard."

"Well, keep your pants on. The main advantage of it is that in the gear and helmet, Mycroft's cameras didn't know it was me. So I could go anywhere I wanted. I might have to start doing that again, now that other people are watching me."

"Other people?"

"Moriarty's people."

"The guy's in jail, isn't he? It was in the papers." He lifts Sherlock's left leg and peers at the back of the calf. "The scar is barely noticeable. I suppose poor Bullseye must be pushing up daisies by now."

"Dogs don't last long; it's best not to become too attached."

"I'm attached to you." Victor strokes the calf muscles, alternating between the pads of his fingers and a knuckle.

Sherlock opens his eyes. "Then poor fool you. I work in a dangerous business. Even before Moriarty, there was a fair chance that my life expectancy will be shortened by the Work."

"More reason to come with me to California."

Annoyed at Victor's persistence, Sherlock takes his feet away and puts them back on the floor. "I'm an expert witness at the trial."

Victor shrugs. "I can wait.  Go do what you have to do to get this Irish guy put away. After he's convicted, come find me."

"He's going to walk free from court."

Victor looks askance. "How's that even possible? The papers have been full of how brazen he's been. I mean, come on. Caught red-handed, stealing the bloody Crown Jewels?!"

"That's the _whole point_. That's why he did what he did—because he wants to prove he's untouchable. He can literally get away with murder, too; we won't be able to prove he was behind the assassination on Friday. It's Moriarty's statement of intent to the whole world's criminal fraternity. He is unbeatable, unstoppable. Making sure I'd be on the scene, and fail to save the victim, would be the ultimate proof of that."

"And you're determined to be the one who does stop him? You think it somehow _has_ to be you, of all people?"

"I don't have a choice."

"That makes no sense. Everyone has a choice. If he's going to get away with it, then why oppose him at the trial? Just let it go."

"I can't."

"Why not? Explain it to me. I know you’re a genius, brain of Britain and all that, but I can keep up, you know. How are you going to beat him if the whole of the British justice system can't do it?"

"I'm not casting aspersions on your intelligence. It's best that you stay out of this entirely, or you'll be caught in the crossfire."

"Why is this Moriarty so important for you?"

"In your case, ignorance is bliss. So is escaping before you become yet more collateral damage."

"I don't want to escape. Damnit, Sherlock; I've only just _found_ you again."

"I'm not giving you a choice. Come tomorrow, you're going to be on your flight. What I need to do is too important; I can't be distracted by having to worry about you, too."

"Is anything more important than being loved? I don't believe that."

"I do. Lives are at stake; I can't stop now. Not for you, not for John, not for anyone."

"John is involved?"

Sherlock pulls his feet away and plants them on the floor. He can't stop himself from dropping his elbows onto his knees and then nodding. How difficult is it to make Victor see this? "Yes, we solve cases together, remember? He's already been kidnapped and held for ransom once by Moriarty. It will happen again, simply because I care about him. He's on that madman's game board, now." _And the only way to save him is to remove all of Moriarty's pawns from play._

"Like you said, you care about him. So, love is your motivator after all."

Trust Victor to try to impute romantic motivations to him. "Caring whether someone lives or dies is not the same as love."

"Why not? I mean, clearly, the two of you––"

"It's not in my nature," Sherlock cuts in. "Haven't you realised that by now? I failed to love you once. I learned, to my cost, that I don't feel things the way other people do, or perhaps I feel them too much, or the wrong way. Whatever…You taught me how destructive it is to my sanity, that love and affection are a form of addiction just as bad as heroin or cocaine. No, actually, it's worse because it hurts other people, not just the addict."

"It hasn't hurt me to love you; I have never stopped doing that. For me, this relationship between us, it was never _over_. After I left for Auckland, you weren't yourself, Mycroft explained that much. You had some sort of a mental health crisis and nobody should be making life-altering decisions in that state. Now, things are clearly different, and you can finally have a think on this with a clear head. Come back with me to California, Sherlock."

Sherlock's temper is hanging by a thread. His fingers coil into fists on his knees. " _Wake up!_ Whatever fantasy you are keeping on indefinite life support, it's time to pull the plug. What I was—the boy you say you loved— burned up long ago; what's left is the Work, and it will take me places nobody should follow."

"I don't believe that. Can't you be honest with me? Why blame work and some kingpin sitting in jail if the real reason is that you've moved on? That you don't feel that way about me anymore. If you don't, then why not just say _that_? The only reason I can think of is that there's someone else. If you won't come with me, then it must be because you love John Watson now."

"Don't be ridiculous. What I may or may not feel about him is pointless. It's to no purpose, because it's not returned. People may talk, but they don't know John, and they don't know me." Sherlock scoffs. " _You_ , of all people, talking about love to _me_. I don't know how to love anyone." He knows he can't keep talking; this has turned into a dialogue of the deaf. Victor isn't listening to what he's saying, because he can't accept the truth. 

He starts to get up from the sofa.

Victor reaches out and snags his hand, turning him as he asks, "Sherlock, have you asked yourself if you allow yourself to love John _because_ he is unattainable? You never have to fear the consequences because he can't or won't love you the way I love you?"

Sherlock stares at him, feeling suddenly terribly exposed. He should have realised the risks of this tryst; Victor knows him too well. He feels stripped naked, his emotions flayed out of the thick skin under which he's hidden them since he has known John.

He glares at Victor's hand around his wrist, and the bigger man takes the hint enough to let him go.

"Okay, okay; sorry," Victor relents, raising his hands in mock surrender. But, he still doesn't give up: "John's a fool if he doesn't love you."

" _Stop talking about John!!"_ Sherlock shouts this; to hell with the neighbours.

The outburst leaves them momentarily suspended, hostage to each other's gaze, until Sherlock looks away. In a calmer voice, he announces, "I need to go take a shower now, _alone_."


	17. Double or Nothing

Sherlock is relieved that Victor doesn't accompany him into the bathroom.  He needs the time to think things through, as he mechanically washes his hair again because last night's exertions had made a mess of his curls.  Oddly, despite what he's just said to Victor, the time they've spent together hasn't been entirely pointless. It's helped him come to some important conclusions. Not just about Victor; in fact, he's secondary by a long margin to John.

_I need to protect them both from what I am becoming._

This is the price he has to pay. He's always been this way. Finding the answer has always been his obsession, even when it had cost him Victor's love. In his obsession, he had uncovered things Victor didn't know or want to know—his real father, Jack Trevor's crimes against his mother, all the lies revealed, truths that undid the love that he and Victor had shared. Those truths had pulled Victor away from him the first time, yet he could no more stop the pursuit of them than he could have stopped breathing. 

Victor does not understand that the same thing is happening now, too. Sherlock is in too deep to benefit from hindsight; even if he wants nothing more desperately than to stop this deadly game, he can't stop now. Moriarty won't let him, and a part of him is still drawn to the orbit of that madman. The people Sherlock cares about—and yes, to himself he won't lie; there _are_ people he cares about, too much if truth could be told, which it can't—those people will be collateral damage unless he is very, very clever and takes Moriarty apart at the seams.

For the sake of all those he loves—yes, _love;_  however other people might define it and however differently he chooses to describe is merely an academic point—he has to make them _hate_ him, put distance between them and him, for their survival.  He realises now that it lies at the heart of the Sigurson Plan, the way he has driven Mycroft away from him, made him angry at his inability to interfere. It's worked in his case.

It's been the plan with John, too, for the past four months, but Sherlock is not sure if it's working yet.

Victor is still outside this danger zone. If he can keep this weekend airtight, with no one knowing about it and Victor leaving for California never to be heard from again, then Sherlock won't have to worry about him being targeted. He may have to be brutal in order to keep it that way, but it will be one less person at risk. He's got enough on his mind right now. _Why did I ever think this was a good idea?_ The insanity of this weekend has been one of the most impulsive things he's ever done, fraught with risk for both of them. He'd thought it would be simple, but it's turning into anything but that. If Moriarty finds out, he will use Victor as a pawn, make him choose. 

_It's no contest; John would win._

Sherlock wonders why that is that case. Could Victor be right? Does he allow himself feelings towards John in private because he knows they will never be requited? Is John therefore _safe_ in a way that Victor wasn't and still isn't?  This weekend has clarified in his own mind that he does not love Victor now the way he did all those years ago. Not after what happened. _Been there, done that, have the scars to prove it._

Yet, the question burns in his mind: _could_ he learn to do that all over again? The temptation is there, but the moment the question arises, he dismisses it, because it is not possible. He cannot do what Victor wants him to do—to leave everything and everyone behind. With Moriarty around, Sherlock has no choice but to see his plan through.

Or… could it be that he just loves John more than he ever did Victor? Does he love John more because he knows he can’t have him, just as Victor had accused?

Sherlock groans in frustration and leans into the spray of the shower for a last rinse off. It's all so complicated. He _hates_ emotions; they never seem to make any sense to him. Mycroft was right; he's just not mentally equipped to deal with all this stuff.  _Alone protects me._

He turns the taps off with a more force than is necessary, angry with himself for relapsing into emotional turmoil that could compromise his judgement at such a critical time. He needs to gather his wits, make a clean break of it and walk away, because this certainly isn't turning out to be the sort of break that he wanted. All it's done is make him even more anxious about Moriarty. Even in prison, the Irishman still has the means to deliver on his threat to burn the heart out of him _._ He can distract himself momentarily with sex, but sooner or later the image returns of Harrison Maddox lying dead on the dance floor. Moriarty's message had been as clear as it could be; it could so easily have been John. A new patient arriving at the surgery walks in and blows Botulinum H into John's face—simple to execute, impossible to stop.

Stepping out of the tub, Sherlock towels himself dry, scrubbing hard enough to sting his skin, a physical rebuke for his weakness. 

 _I have to be a machine._ This is the lesson he'd learned from Victor all those years ago that has kept him from crossing the line with John. This weekend has done nothing except reinforce that lesson:

_Keep John at a distance._

_Confess nothing._

_Push him away._

_Do it for both of us._

There will be less damage this time to himself this time because he's been able to control his emotional needs better. He'd been flayed alive by losing Victor, but he won't be hurt like that this time.  _John doesn't know what I feel about him and he's never, ever going to find out._

Perhaps he should treat this weekend as the most valuable lesson he could have had at this point: just by being with him, Victor may already have unwittingly placed himself in the cross-hairs if he persists in this beyond Monday. There is no room for faltering, no space for sentiment. To ensure that Victor escapes this unscathed, Sherlock is going to have to be so brutal that Victor never ever wants to see him again or make any kind of contact. Perhaps the best way to salvage this weekend is for him to think of is as a trial run. If he can learn from what he does with Victor today, it should help him do the same with John.

No need to blunder about; that's what a scientist does—experiment. It's the logical approach.

oOoOoOoOoOo

When Sherlock returns to the living room, he's shaved and dressed in the suit trousers and dress shirt that he'd worn last night. Victor looks up from his laptop and drinks in the sight. 

Sherlock is frowning at the computer. "I do hope you aren't online."

"Give me some credit; I know how to keep off Mycroft's radar. I'm in Aeroplane mode, just going over the documentation for the flotation; there will be a session with the financial press just after the opening. I have fifteen minutes to answer their questions before the car comes pick me up for the return flight..." Victor is watching Sherlock's expression, to see what is going to show there when he adds the rider onto the end of his statement; "…that is, assuming I am going to catch that."

"You are." It's said with such utter conviction that it makes Victor almost flinch.

He tries a different tack. "Of course, I could arrange for a second ticket on the helicopter from Battersea, if you agree to come with me."

"I'm not."  The response is instantaneous, and brutal. Sherlock walks over to the window and looks out at the garden below. "It would appear that the owner of the tricycle is distressed about the damage we did." 

Victor gets off the sofa, coming up behind him to look over his shoulder to the scene below. A young boy, bundled up against the cold, is crying and pointing at the tricycle, whose front wheel is bent out of shape. "Oh dear."

"He'll get over it." Coldly, Sherlock turns away.

"Will you? Get over what you're about to break here?" Victor is impatient and frustrated; what else is there that he could say to make Sherlock reconsider? What is it, really, that's keeping him here? He's lonely, he _has_ to be—why else would he have grasped Victor in bed like a drowning man?

"The more you try to have this conversation, the more likely it is that I will leave right now."

It wounds Victor, but he shrugs. "Well, you can't blame me for trying."

"Yes, I can. There is no point in discussing this further."

Is that why Sherlock is dressed again? Victor wonders if he's decided to leave tonight, regardless of what will be said next. "Don't go. Not yet." He's not ready for this. He won't _ever_ be ready for this.

Sherlock looks around the flat. "What else is there to do?"

"You're the one who said you needed a break. Take the opportunity to put that ferocious mind of yours in neutral for a few more hours. It won't hurt and it could help."

"We've spent enough time in bed."

Victor laughs, and hates that it sounds a bit forced. "It isn't just about sex, Sherlock. We can do other things."

"Such as?" That little wrinkle of confusion that Victor loves appears between Sherlock's eyebrows. 

"What do you do when you aren't solving crimes?" He had almost said 'what do you do with _John_ '. Almost.

"Experiments, research, play the violin."

"Shame you didn't bring the violin with you; I used to love hearing you play." _Bite the bullet_. "What do you do with John, you know, _together_?"

"We… co-exist."  Sherlock shrugs. "Eat, sleep, he watches ridiculous TV, I read journals, he reads asinine novels or types up his blog…stuff, just stuff."

Victor is smiling. "Let's do some of that stuff, then. The student who lives here likes music; check out his CD collection.  And I found a backgammon set. You can try to bankrupt me." He can't resist the tease. "Might take you longer this time than it did in Cambridge."

"I used to beat you most of the time."

"I'm going to guess you haven't played since Cambridge, whereas I have done so regularly for the past thirteen years. I might have to handicap myself."

Sherlock's eyes narrow. "Set it up."

oOoOoOoOo

Victor is still smiling as the first passages of Bach's double violin concerto emerge from the sound system. He's set up the board, which doesn't look particularly well-used.  Sherlock has always been fiercely competitive when it comes to board games. He'd tried to teach Victor chess, but that didn’t work, because even when he conceded four or five pieces to Victor, he still couldn't keep up. Victor remembers trying to explain to Sherlock how, as a beginner, he needed to be allowed to win occasionally, just to boost his confidence.  Sherlock had retorted that Mycroft had never let him win anything, saying that 'losing to one's betters is a good learning experience'.  It had only underscored Victor's belief that Sherlock's brother was a pompous twat.  The thought makes him wonder whether that sibling rivalry is still at work. Victor has heard nothing to suggest that the two brothers have made any kind of peace.

Compared to chess, backgammon had been better for them.  Because the roll of dice introduced an element of uncertainty and luck into the game, Sherlock couldn't predict with any degree of certainty what would happen. While the scientist could calculate odds better than Victor back then, the tactics of blocking, the back game, the doubling cube all introduced too many variables and made it possible for Victor to win about one in three of their matches.

By the seventh game in, Victor realises that his years of California practice are yielding results; the tally stands at four to three in Sherlock's favour. Interestingly, despite this, Sherlock is much more heavily in debt at a pound a point.

A brief time-out to let Victor make some tea for them leads to a conversation about that fact.

"You seem more _au fait_ with the gambling aspects than I recall." Sherlock sounds a little miffed that the score line is not being reflected in the money pot.

Victor doesn't bother to hide a smile. "You're willing to take every double I offer, so you have no one to blame but yourself. Yet you never do the same to me. Why is that?"

Sherlock shrugs. "The game is more interesting to me than the money. If I offer you a double and you refuse it, then _game over._ That's boring. In any case, money seems to motivate you more than it does me."

"Maybe that's because in San Francisco, I play with a bunch of Stanford MBA alumni who like to play for ten dollars a point. If I can backgammon someone and the doubling cube is at sixty four, then we are talking serious money, nearly $2000. You're the one taking the risk on when you accept my double. It's like you can't be bothered to think it through."

That earns him a nod. "You're right. I don't care enough to do the calculations. It's more about seeing how the rest of the game pans out than any monetary reward involved."

"But, if the odds are stacked against you, then it makes sense to quit while you are ahead rather than risk losing even more."

He sees Sherlock smile. "You give in too easily.  If I can win after you've doubled things so often, then it is a greater victory for me."

Victor laughs and puts his empty tea cup down. He feels more relaxed and relieved than he had all day; the ice has been broken again. "Applying that logic says you should be the one to double me all the time, because I'd be risk-averse preferring to lose one point now, rather than risk it getting much worse. It's all about quitting when you know you are ahead."

"Set them up again. I will prove my point."

The next two hours pass in a mental combat that Victor relishes. There is no talking apart from what they need to say to each other about the matches. In the background, music is playing. The student's music centre loads five CDs at a time, but the classical collection is pretty limited.

Unlike Victor's usual opponents, Sherlock plays with utter abandon—so much so that the tide does turn a bit in his favour. He does win more than half the games, but because he won't turn down a double, when he does win, the monetary value of the win starts to erode the gap between them. Victor starts to play more conservatively, which Sherlock pounces on and starts offering doubles, which Victor refuses, preferring to lose the game than lose more money. He also starts to offer fewer doubles himself, knowing that if he judges it wrong, then he will lose even more.

At five thirty, Victor gets up to stretch and opens the bottle of wine—a New Zealand pinot noir.  "A bit limited in their choice of wine, I am afraid. Not up to my usual standards."

Sherlock shrugs. "I have no standards regarding wine."

Concentrating on the board and the run of play, swearing over the rolls of the dice when they don't go in his favour, Victor loses all track of time until his stomach gives an almighty growl that disrupts his chain of thought. 

"Time out. I need a pee break and I'm going to cook supper."

"I'm not hungry."

"Yes, you are—hungry for my blood in this game at least. I need a refuelling break. Why don't you tally up the points and line up some more CDs?" Victor gets up and heads for the loo.

Cooking supper is easy. A steak fried on a griddle pan, a baking potato microwaved, crisped up in the oven, slathered with butter.  It takes all of fifteen minutes to assemble the whole meal.

As Victor sets the table and plates up, he asks Sherlock for the score.

"I have won 63% of the games by number, and am now only seven pounds in your debt."

Victor laughs. "Well, that's an improvement from the seventy-six you owed at tea." He sits down and tackles his steak with relish. "How would you describe the change in your strategy?"

"Despite what you said, it's not about quitting when you are ahead." Sherlock pokes at his steak warily, then cuts a slice through the centre to see how rare it is. Victor knows he prefers his meat medium—only the barest hint of pink is tolerable.

Sherlock takes a tentative bite. After chewing carefully, he pronounces, "Adequate."  Another sip of the wine gets a "tolerable" before Sherlock continues: "I proved that I don't care about money, but I do care about losing.  So, over the run of the matches, you got more and more risk averse unless you thought you could win.  You try to preserve your lead by doubling only when you think you can win. I trap you into thinking you can win, you double and then I reap the benefits when I surprise you by winning. It's all about the end game."

Sherlock takes another sip of his wine. "It also helps that you've had much more of this to drink than I have. It means you've become a bit sloppy, more confident of your chances of winning, doubling even when your position may not warrant it. It also means you miss some of my strategy and make more mistakes. The closer I get to beating you on the money stakes, the more risk you take, and I win more.  It's been easy."

He looks smug, and Victor is surprised at how much it annoys him.

oOoOoOoOoOo

After dinner, Victor washes up and then tells Sherlock to set up the board again.  He activates the CD player and is surprised to hear clubbing music. "A bit of nostalgia?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "His taste is more current Ibiza than our era. I don't recognise any of the tracks."

They play for another three hours, but Victor can't turn the tide. Even being told Sherlock's strategy, he keeps second-guessing. The stakes are smaller now; he's not willing to risk a big loss. Sherlock now offers him doubles on a regular basis, but Victor takes them cautiously.  At ten thirty, he throws in the towel. "What's the score?"

"I've won 77% of the games; and you owe me seventeen pounds."

"Bloody hell. You're a challenge, Sherlock. You take risks every day, so I suppose I was a fool to think you wouldn't beat me."  He gets up and walks over to the sofa. "Come here, please?"

Sherlock complies, but is careful to keep his distance from Victor. That, too, is annoying, considering what they've done less than twenty-four hours ago. What Sherlock let him _do_ to him less than a day ago. Suddenly, he realises what's getting on his nerves: he's being dictated terms at every step, as though Sherlock holds all the power and Victor has no rights at all to expect anything. Yes, he may have made mistakes all those years ago but there are two of them in this… whatever Sherlock is willing to call _this_ , now.

Victor decides he has nothing to lose; he has to make one more try at this. "So why aren't you willing to take a risk on me?"

"In what way?"

"By saying ' _screw you_ ' to Mycroft, Moriarty, John and anyone else for that matter. Chuck it all in and come with me. You're stressed, you worry for your own safety and everybody else's—what sort of a life is that? You're not happy, are you? How _could_ you be?"

Those blue-green eyes turn stony. "It's not worth the risk."

That hurts. "You mean, _I'm_ not worth the risk?"

"You said it, not me."

"So, what's the game you've been playing this weekend, then?" Victor asks, bitterness seeping into his tone.

"Not a game."

"What then?"

"A litmus test."

"Explain that for me; I'm not the genius chemist in this room."

"One dips the treated paper into a solution to find out whether it is acidic or alkaline."

"And which is this?"

Sherlock sighs. "Both, and yet neither. In your case, I have decided to make sure that the acidity balances out the alkaline. Neutral… whatever."

"How am I supposed to make any sense out of that?"

"Relationships are a chemical defect I can't deal with right now. Not you—and before you drag him into the conversation again, no, _not John_ , either."

"What if I'm willing to take whatever risk you think being with you means? Maybe John isn't, or more likely you've not even asked him because you have a habit of making decisions for two people at once."

Sherlock shakes his head, mouth tightened into an angry line. "Don't you _see_? If I were to leave with you, John would be kidnapped _again_ and I would be forced to choose between the two of you!"

Victor sags back into the chair. "And what? Are you saying I'd lose? Is that it?"

"You aren't even supposed to be part of this equation. I should never have allowed John to become a target. Any further weakness on my part means his death. I won't do that to you, either."

"You're dodging the question. I don't understand this business of yours with Moriarty and why that should make any difference to whether or not you love me.  Do you love me, Sherlock?" _There._ Victor's finally asked it, and now he is utterly terrified of the answer.

Sherlock scrubs his hands through his hair, groaning in frustration. "What does that even _mean_? What that word means to you isn't the same for me. For me, love is a chemical defect. I don't _want_ it, it's not worth it, and if I could choose to be rid of it for good, I would. It drives me crazy." He lifts his gaze to glare at Victor. "As you've already seen fit to remind me once today, I ended up under a psychiatrist's care the last time I even thought I might have felt something you called love."

"Is that what you are feeling now?"

"Stop doing this!"

"I can't stop. It's a discussion we should have had thirteen years ago. But you refused. Just like now. You can't just will these things to go away, _it doesn't work like that!_ "

There is a deep breath, and then in a flat monotone, Sherlock pronounces, "I don't love you. I am not going with you tomorrow. I am not going to change my mind." He gets up and walks to the window, turning his back on Victor. "It's more a case of what _you're_ going to do. You _will_ board that flight tomorrow."

"I don't want to leave you."

"You've done it before; you can do it again."

"I've regretted that decision for the past thirteen years. I don't intend making it again."

"Then I'm making it for you this time. You just accused me of making decisions for other people, when that's precisely what you're trying to do to me. You march in, assume you know everything about my life, insist that what you're offering is something I'd want, and think it's your right to drag things into the light you have no business interfering with. After tonight, I don't want to see you again, or have any contact with you… ever."

The words are like a slap in the face, and Victor reels from them. How can this be coming from the man who just last night had been making love to him?

Feebly, all Victor can manage is a confused, "So, you just switch it all off?" He snaps his fingers. "Just like that, it's all gone? Yet you won’t even look at me when I say I love you. Yes, still. And you can tell yourself you don’t feel anything but you don’t get to decide how I feel. You don’t get to decide what I want. There’s so much I regret but not the fact that we were together—not back then, and not this weekend. This is _me_ , Sherlock. You don’t have to pretend with me. Just give me a reason I can understand, just promise me you won’t just… give up on yourself like that."

"I have no problems looking at you and repeating what I said."

"So, this—you and me, this weekend—meant nothing. Just a waste of time. A bit of _fun_."

Sherlock turns back to give a pained look at him. "It was supposed to be a time-out, a brief moment when I could stop the clock, catch my breath, and just take a break.  That's what I asked from you, again and again, and that's what you said you would give. I guess I know better, now, but the damage is done. This…" he gestures between himself and Victor, "…didn't work thirteen years ago, because you made too many assumptions about me. You've been doing it all weekend, too, making assumptions. Maybe you can now see the truth about what went wrong back then. It's been _enlightening_ for me, certainly. I am not capable of being the person you want me to be."

Victor's exhale is shaky. "Just say you’re in love with him because this—you, using and abandoning me—this isn’t you. This is something else, and I don’t think you should be just playing around with––“

 _“Playing around_? You don’t understand _anything_! You think you know me, know my life, know what’s good for me but you haven’t been here! You don’t know Moriarty! I’m not sacrificing John—or you—because you want to play house in California, because you can’t get over the fact that this, us, _is_ over! And it’s not over because you left me, it’s not over because of Jack Trevor, it’s over because the minute we gave it life it was doomed to die and you’re refusing to turn off the bloody life support! It doesn’t _matter_ who I love because it’s always a mistake I can’t afford right now.”

“None of this makes any sense!" Victor shouts. "We were happy, Sherlock, and you can be that again if you stop being so bloody stubborn! What are you so afraid of? Him, John? What would be worse, that he’d say yes or that he'd say no? How is that worse than spending your whole life wondering what if you’d done it differently, what if you’d chosen differently, tried harder? I _lived_ that, Sherlock, for thirteen years, and it’s hell. It’s worse than someone saying they don’t want you. Hell yes, it was worse than what you’re doing to me right now!”

“I’m not doing _anything_! I told you—you make assumptions. I told you it’s take it or leave it, this weekend and that’s it. But you just can’t let the past stay where it needs to. The future is about more than just picking up where we left off with some teenage thing that was never meant to last. It’s about survival! You're angry with me, but maybe this is my way of realising—the final proof—that I was wrong ever to attempt love. And you were a fool to believe otherwise thirteen years ago. And you are still a fool if you think I am capable of loving you." 

Victor feels like he's been stabbed. He wonders for a moment if this is Sherlock's revenge. Has the whole weekend been a way of him working out his anger at Victor leaving him behind, at Victor's decision to take Mycroft's offer?  Was this really just sex for him, a way to throw it all back in Victor's face? 

He whispers, "Do you know how cruel that makes you sound?"

"Cruel? No, more a kindness. Perhaps it's best to think of it as me putting an end to something that was left hanging all those years ago. That's what people do, isn't it? Put a sick animal down rather than prolong its suffering?  I'm being merciful. I am sparing you the worst of me, protecting you against what is yet to come. I cannot be the person you want to love."

Victor feels the words lash him, each one cutting deeper.  "Why do you hate yourself so much?"

Sherlock is already half way to the bedroom, but he's heard it because he stops and turns to look at Victor. "Because I know myself better than you do."

Something in Victor breaks; he can't let Sherlock do this to himself. "If I can't have you, if you don't want me, then let John love you, please. You love him. If you can't love me, then love him."

"Impossible. He doesn't feel that way about me. He's not gay; not interested in that. Any emotion on my part is positively dangerous for him. I cannot afford the luxury of caring about him; emotional weakness on my part will kill him."

"Don't do this, Sherlock. Please. Whatever it is you think you need to do, don't do it alone."

"Alone protects not just me but everyone around me. I'm going to bed, to sleep _alone_. I expect you will be gone when I wake up tomorrow. Goodbye, Victor."

oOoOoOoOoOo

It's a lie, of course. The idea that Sherlock could sleep after an argument like that is a joke. But, he hopes what he said will keep Victor away from him for the rest of the night.

He's undressed, hanging up his clothes carefully, and putting everything of Victor's into the bathroom, where he can reach it from the living room. Now sitting up with his back against the headboard and his arms clasped around his bent knees, Sherlock knows he needs solitude right now. Going back to Baker Street right tonight is impossible. Emotions are still surging around his head and it would be impossible for him to anywhere near John at the moment. The fact that Victor is only in the next room is bad enough.

He curses his weakness.  All he really wants right now is to lose himself in the man's arms, to feel safe, to push everything else away, to stop _thinking._ The awfulness of everything has taken up residence in his mind; it's shoved a _do-not-enter_ sign on the front lawn of his Mind Palace, the front door criss-crossed with crime scene tape. 

Sherlock's very bones are aching with the loss that is coming.  Up until now, the Sigurson Plan had been a process, a logical lock-step progression of things he has to do, people he has to convince, pieces to be put together so the trap can be sprung on Moriarty right when the man decides to make his own move. It's focused him on instrumental thinking, functional reasoning and practical actions which he knows he's good at. It has kept him busy while Mycroft tried to starve him of cases, hoping to break him, drive him into a drug relapse that would destroy his reputation in the eyes of Elizabeth ffoukes. The hours spent in the Moriarty Annexe of the Palace, working on the time-line and the process have absorbed all his energy and kept him sane, because in there he doesn't have to deal with anyone who actually matters to him. And it has kept him away from temptations and cravings, because he can focus on what is needed to move the plan forward.

 _Stupid._ He's beaten off the threat of drugs, only to relapse into something far worse—emotional attachments. He knew that the part involving John was going to be hard, but he never anticipated the stab in the chest that Victor's reappearance would be.

Until now, he's not thought about what the cost is going to be in terms of his own life. Intellectually, of course, he knows that it will involve his disappearance and resurrection in the identity of Lars Sigurson. He's rehearsed all the arguments as to why this is necessary to protect the various people foolish enough to care about him. But he also knows that he's willing to sacrifice those relationships because beating Moriarty has become more important to him than preserving those ties. He can't keep John alive if he keeps him close. 

What _is_ he going to lose, really? A relationship with his flatmate, a man who corrected him when he'd called him friend, demoting him to colleague. Someone who he's called his one friend but been too scared to try to make into anything more—certain that if he did, he'd lose even what little he has. He's been rationalising it as something that is easy to sacrifice; John doesn't love him, and he doesn't love John.

Only now he knows different. Being with Victor has only made it clear to Sherlock that he does think of John that way, or at least wishes he could.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid!_

It's been hiding in his bones, crawling up his body with tendrils of tension, an anxiety being pumped through his body until it's in every cell. Knowledge of what he is going to have to lose has finally crossed the blood-brain barrier and there it has announced itself in all its horrid glory. He'd been thinking of his sex-a-thon with Victor as a way for his body to seek a release, thought he could use this time with Victor to learn how to be cruel enough to break with him forever—a trial run of what he should do with John. What it's actually done is remind his brain how much he craves intimacy, and what emotional cost it carries.

Victor's not the only one in pain now.  Sherlock had deleted what caring about the man can do to him. Worse still, Victor's set off a craving for something with someone he can never have and therefore shouldn't want. 

With a shock, he realises what a disaster this has been—a total miscalculation. Instead of a respite, the weekend's opened wounds in him that he'd thought healed long ago, and inflicted even more in the form of revelations about John.

Sherlock looks down at his hands, which have fallen away from his knees to fist a wad of the sheet. He realises that he is rocking, his body unconsciously trying to find a release for the storm unfolding in his head. He tries to drag in a breath, and it makes his chest constrict.  Frantic to stop sound escaping from his mouth, Sherlock grabs a pillow and shoves his face into it. The tears that come soak into the pillow case; the sobs are muffled by the pillow. He can't let the noise out to alert Victor that anything is amiss. He'd jump to the wrong conclusion.

In the silence of the night, Sherlock grieves for what he has lost, and what he will lose in the future.


	18. Repercussions

**_-Earlier Sunday evening-_ **

"That text sent to Sherlock's phone—it was made from a call-box on West Smithfield. Interestingly, it's right outside the Barts path unit and also the nearest call box to The Central Criminal Court on Old Bailey. Sort of fits Moriarty's style, doesn't it just." Over the phone, Lestrade sounds worried. "No news yet, I suppose?"

"No." It's nine o'clock and John is knackered. Not just from the post-gastroenteritis malaise, but an afternoon and early evening of worrying about whether or not he's done the right thing by calling Mycroft. Maybe he should have just resumed the search himself. He's never been one for hanging about waiting, doing nothing. It was one of the reasons why he'd opted for trauma surgery in the first place—never a dull moment and there were always concrete things to do, steps to take to further the cause.

He may be tired, but he's still able to think through what Greg has just said about the origins of that text message he'd found on Sherlock's phone.  "A text from a call box? How is that even possible?"

"Yeah, I wondered that, too. Apparently back in the dark ages when SMS got started, BT fitted up a lot of London call boxes with the facility. It's still there in the older red boxes. So, it's a great way to stay anonymous."

"Hardly anonymous; we all know it came from someone working for Moriarty. Any CCTV footage?"

"No. Interestingly, there's a camera on the corner of Cock Lane, but it's out of order. Vandalised, according to Camden Council, last week."

"Convenient."

"Speaking of calls… Have you contacted Mycroft yet?"

"Yes."

There is an awkward pause. "And…?"

"He said that Victor Trevor is a bigger threat to Sherlock than Moriarty."

" _Shit_."

John thinks but does not say, _Yeah, my thoughts exactly_. Instead, he opts for "He's working on trying to find the Trevor guy, which apparently he is allowed to do, but he says he can no longer track Sherlock the way he normally does. Somehow, Sherlock's done something that means Mycroft's been recused from all that. Must piss him off royally."

"Did he say _why_ this bloke is so much of a problem?"

"No."

"God, I hope Sherlock gets in touch before Mycroft drags him out by the ear. As for Trevor, I can just imagine Mycroft going all _if-you've-hurt-him-I-will-bury-you-so-deeply-that-they-won't-find-you-until-the-next-ice-age_."

Despite the way he's feeling, John can't help but snort a laugh at Greg's choice of words. "You sound like you've heard something like that from him."

"Yeah, when Sherlock first starting working with the Met. Scared me witless. I know he vetted every damn candidate for the flat share.* And I got a similar kind of warning about how handing Sherlock any Met cases at the moment would be, in his words, _a career-limiting move_. You must have had something similar."

John hums an agreement. He'd not been frightened, just annoyed by Mycroft's interference.

"Well, if anyone can find this guy, it's going to be Mycroft. So, I guess we just have to sit tight and hope Sherlock gets in touch before that. Good night, John."

"Good night, Greg."

oOoOoOoOoOo

Of course, it isn't anything like a _good_ night—it's utterly awful.  When he should be sleeping, John is staring at the ceiling wondering where the hell Sherlock is and what he's doing.  If his relationship with Victor at university had been destructive enough to warrant this kind of reaction from Mycroft, then surely it can't be overreaction for him to be worried sick about this. Whatever relief John might have expected to gain from the older Holmes getting involved hasn't materialised yet; instead, he now feels even worse. As soon as he turns off the light, his imagination starts going wild.  _Drugs?_ Presumably; he's had enough warnings about danger nights. But, they've dealt with Sherlock's danger nights before, and on those occasions Big Brother has acted with the resigned serenity of experience.

This is clearly worse, if even Mycroft is so spooked that he can't or won't conceal it. John allows himself to conjure up the image of the tall, blond man on the club floor. Confident to the point of arrogant, clearly assuming Sherlock would welcome him back without question. Instead of his usual fiercely independent and acerbic self, Sherlock had look mesmerised, almost spellbound.

That begs John to ask the question whether there was something about the core of that relationship that was wrong. _Was it abusive?_

The thought makes John's breath catch. Images come to mind of Sherlock relapsing into drugs and being sexually mistreated, and he can't bear them. Could that be the reason why he was almost certain that he he'd seen a trace of fear alongside surprise and astonishment when Sherlock had recognised Victor's voice?

Until he'd met Victor, John would have not been able to imagine anyone getting that kind of dominance over Sherlock. But this guy is so _big_ ; taller by about five inches, and heftier, too. Could he fight back, if things got rough? Or maybe, there was something else at work. He'd certainly taken the initiative when he kissed Sherlock. Does Sherlock _like_ that sort of thing, but allow it to go so far that it's not safe or healthy? Irene Adler's brand of power play had seemed to both confuse and intrigue Sherlock, and to John he'd definitely seemed to be manipulated by the dominatrix. But, even if the Woman had managed to best Sherlock in some ways, when she flirted with him Sherlock had been impervious. That makes sense to John now, assuming Sherlock is mostly or entirely attracted just to men. Yet, when they thought she was dead, he'd seemed to mourn, enough for John to ask Mrs Hudson whether he'd ever had a girlfriend, a boyfriend, a relationship _ever_. She didn't know and neither did he, which said everything. How could they _not_ know? It had all fed his belief that Sherlock was sexually naive, if not asexual.  But that kiss told a different story.

_Who the hell is Victor Trevor?!_

Is the man so damned dominant that Sherlock never has a chance to put his own needs into the picture? _What are those needs?_  Round and round his thoughts go. Until Friday night, John would have said that Sherlock held himself above something so mundane. The man wears his celibacy as if it is a badge of honour, a moral high ground from which he could look down on John's foibles and his persistence in trying to date.

John tosses and turns. One minute he's too hot and throwing off the duvet; the next he's cold and pulling it up to his chin.  His brain won't shut down, despite how tired he is. Maybe he's reading too much into the momentary hesitation that Sherlock had shown before he returned that kiss with equal ardour. They clearly haven't seen each other in a long time; water under the bridge and all, and wouldn't Sherlock have gained some perspective into a crap relationship during that time—enough not to fall for it again?

_Why would he react like that to someone he doesn't ever talk about? Is that a sign that Victor was abusive? Is this some sort of a sherlockian version of Stockholm syndrome?_

In John's experience, Sherlock has always been able to look after himself in a scrap; while John's gun has proved its worth on many occasions, he isn't egotistical enough to think that Sherlock is some fragile damsel needing to be protected.  Having thought that he was protecting Sherlock's privacy by keeping quiet about Trevor, John is now beating himself up. What kind of friend is he, if he's stupid enough to allow an abuser to barge in and resume a damaging relationship?

Trying to think things through keeps him awake for hours. No matter how many times he tries to tell himself to be sensible, not to jump into conclusions, he keeps spinning back to Mycroft's haunted tone and hasty reaction on the phone, and can't help the deduction that if Mycroft has reason to worry about Victor Trevor's effect on Sherlock then John definitely has, too.

He resurrects every conversation that he'd had with Mycroft about Sherlock. That first "interview" had been odd to him at the time, but now, when he rehearses the scene, he realises that Mycroft's insinuations had been very specific: _'Since yesterday, you’ve moved in with him and now you’re solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?'_

If the one time Sherlock had a sexual relationship with someone it had gone disastrously wrong, then yes, Mycroft may well think he has good reason to vet a flatmate. Not about their ability to pay the bills, but specifically about their sexual intentions. 

Next, there was that ambiguous exchange at Buckingham Palace: _'Don’t be alarmed. It’s to do with sex,'_ to which Sherlock had replied that sex doesn't alarm him. Back then John had interpreted Mycroft's reply— _'how would you know?'—_ either as just brotherly teasing or an insinuation that Sherlock is a virgin. It was just more evidence of what John has assumed is Sherlock's asexuality. Perhaps, there had been a different meaning? What if the sex that Sherlock had experienced had been alarming, but that he'd been too drugged up or his mental health too compromised to know any better?

 _No wonder Mycroft worries constantly._  

One more thing John has learned comes to mind: the man's mention that Trevor isn't even _allowed_ in the country. It doesn't surprise John that Mycroft might have enough power to put someone on a black list, but that just raises the question again what the guy had done that was so bad to warrant such a precaution.

_If he hurts Sherlock…_

John sits up, fed up with trying to catch the tail end of sleep. The rice bowl he'd managed to eat three hours ago is rumbling around in his digestive system and sitting heavily; anxiety is making matters worse. When he glances over at the alarm clock on his bedside table, the luminous dial reads 03.49, and he groans. Given all the resources that Mycroft has at his disposal, surely it doesn’t take twelve hours to locate this guy?  John's own brief attempt to get somewhere had turned up a dead-end at the bank, but surely Mycroft has much more up his sleeve?

_Why is it taking so long?_

Phone in hand, John goes to the kitchen for a glass of water, then drops down on the sofa, spreading himself over the length of it. He dozes, drifting off every once in a while, only to wake himself up with a start, grabbing his phone to see if there's been a text or a missed call.

At one point, he dreams of running down endless corridors looking for the one window that will open out into the room where Sherlock is being held hostage. Moriarty is talking to him on the pink phone, telling him that he's going to be too late; taunting him for his failure. John wants the madman to shut up and let him listen to what's happening in the room because he's sure Jeff Hope is about to convince Sherlock to take the pill again. Only this time, John can't find the window—every room he looks into has no windows at all.  He waves his gun in despair and runs back out into the corridor. Because of the phone, he knows that the cabbie isn't alone; he can hear Moriarty egging Hope on, and alongside Sherlock is Victor Trevor, telling him to stop wasting time, to take the pill so they can go dancing. John's been running for so long he's short of breath. He throws open another set of double doors and this time, there is a window. He runs over to it and tries to open it. For some reason, the glass is black. Angry and afraid that he's going to be too late, he smashes the glass with the butt end of his pistol, only to discover that there is a brick wall on the other side. There is no way he is going to be able to stop the inevitable. 

_"SHERLOCK!!"_

The shout wakes him up with a start.

Heart pounding and scared witless, John realises that his phone is ringing. Sitting up, he grabs it and thumbs it open without even looking at the number.

"Sherlock?" he demands.

"Not yet."

It's Mycroft. John tries to slow his breathing down.

"I have located Victor Trevor, and there is reason to assume Sherlock will be at the same location," Mycroft announces in a clipped tone. "My car will be outside your flat in eighteen minutes. Do come prepared with a medical kit. We have no idea what we are going to find."

Cold sweat creeping down his neck, John glances at the clock: 05:12.

"Are you sure that's where Sherlock is? Where is it? How did you find them?"

"I will deal with your questions on our way there."

"Right. I'll be waiting outside."

oOoOoOoOoOo

Serving in the army and spending countless night on call as a surgical trainee means that John has learned how to get awake and dressed very quickly. The one thing he does make time for is a quick shave; there is no way in hell he's going to show up at Victor Trevor's place looking like something the cat dragged in. For that very reason, he doesn't grab last night's clothes, but pulls on a clean checked shirt, a long-sleeved grey cardigan, black trousers and black shoes.

After greeting the police officer who had been posted outside by Lestrade, John tells him that he's going out.

"Will you be in need of close protection, sir? I'm about to go off duty but I can tell my replacement to accompany you or get someone in plain clothes."

"No need. And you can put Lestrade's mind at ease by telling him I'm with Mycroft Holmes."

When the car pulls up, John gets into the back and puts his medical bag between his feet and snaps on his seatbelt before taking a look at the older Holmes.

The man looks tired, very tired. The clothes that would have been pristine examples of sartorial correctness when they were put on are now looking more than a bit crumpled. Add to the picture the shadow on a face not shaved this morning and John realises that he has never seen Mycroft in such a state.

The man's tone matches his frown. "We'll forgo the usual pleasantries this morning, I should think."

"Where are they?" John demands.

"In a flat near Vincent Square, on loan from a GeneTAC employee. I found it by tracing a burner phone, provided to Victor Trevor by one Steven Green, an American lawyer who brought him into the country on a private plane charter under a fake passport. Green took some persuading to part with the details."

John is watching the traffic as the car crosses the intersection with Marylebone Road. Traffic is surprisingly busy for this time of the morning; a lot of small white vans are hurrying to get their deliveries done before the seven a.m. start of congestion charging. "What did it take to convince him?"

"He is guilty of assisting unlawful immigration which is a crime; I merely pointed out that, if convicted, he'd be disbarred in the US and banned from entry into the UK, making it hard for him to earn the exorbitant fees he charges Trevor or any other client. His full co-operation would be enough to guarantee that I might look the other way when he leaves at noon tomorrow from Biggin Hill on his chartered plane."

John gives a wry shake of his head, "An offer he couldn't refuse."

Mycroft is looking out of the window on his side of the back seat. "Did you expect thumbscrews?"

"Not your style."

"No. However, a bit of torture might have been quicker. My brother laid a very good trail as far as the Dorchester Hotel and then vanished. My only regret is that it took as long as it did to locate Mister Green and extract the phone number. And then, even when I could triangulate approximate locations, more work was needed to extricate an exact location from the data. Leg work is tedious by its very nature but, for reasons of discretion, I had to do it myself rather than rely on my people."

"Discretion?" John is still confused about exactly how Sherlock seems to have hobbled his brother's habitual interference and use of his own people to keep him under surveillance.

"Required, lest various people whom Sherlock has suborned catch sight of what I was doing and take it in their heads to warn him."

"Or stop you?"

The fact that Mycroft does not reply gives John the answer he is looking for. It makes him uneasy about the whole thing. Does he have a right to interfere with Sherlock's romantic choices, simply on the basis of Mycroft's views or his own surprise that Sherlock would be inclined to make such choices? Maybe this is a case of Mycroftian over-protectiveness, and John is making a big mistake, aiding and abetting this interference.

John's head is swirling with too many competing, contradictory thoughts. Realising his own feelings about Sherlock hasn't helped resolve anything. In fact, it's made things worse. If Sherlock's relationship with Victor is a damaging one, John coming in on Mycroft's coattails is going to be resented. If Mycroft is over-reacting, then John riding shot-gun with him is going to be hated even more by Sherlock. If John ever has any ambitions of getting closer to Sherlock, this is surely not the best way to do it. And even if all that's on offer is friendship, the last thing John wants to do at the moment is piss Sherlock off even more. Things have been tetchy between the two of them ever since Baskerville, if not before. If he ends up being seen as taking Mycroft's side in this exercise, their existing relationship will suffer even more.

Before John can ask a question that might help him sort out the mess going on in his head, Mycroft continues, "I was able to call in a favour and trace the content of the specific calls made. Trevor used the phone to order a delivery of fish and chips on Saturday evening, and then used it again this morning at five o'clock to organise a taxi to get him to the Stock Exchange. In both cases, the exact address was mentioned. In between those times, the phone has been off and the SIM removed."

"Are you even sure Sherlock is with him?"

"The order was for two portions."

John snorts just as the car speeds up heading south. "He's a big guy; maybe he was hungry."

He then shifts in his seat before fixing his gaze on Mycroft. "You need to tell me why you are so spooked about Sherlock seeing him again."

"We don't have time for the long story. The short version is that, against my advice, whilst in his second year of university, my brother formed first a friendship and then an intimate relationship with Trevor. The signs were there even during the early stages that it could prove outstandingly destructive, but it should not surprise you that Sherlock was not inclined to heed my counsel in the matter. When it ended badly—as it was inevitably doomed to do—Sherlock had a mental breakdown, self-harmed and then took an intentionally lethal overdose. He ended up in rehab for six months. He never went back to finish his graduate degree at Cambridge, gave up chemistry and spent a significant part of the next four years of his life either high on drugs and living on the streets, or in rehab. In short, his relationship with Victor Trevor was devastating to his mental health."

John listens to this catalogue of woes and tries to make sense of it. If Mycroft blames Victor for that disastrous period in Sherlock's life, no wonder he wants to stop their reunion.

John now needs to ask the obvious question; Mycroft has indicated that his medical expertise may be needed so he needs to find out what he can to prepare. "In what way, ' _devastating_ '? Did Victor turn him onto drugs? Was he violent? Take advantage of him sexually?" John closes his eyes, dreading the answer.

"Those things would have been cause for me to intervene earlier and put an end to it in the very early stages. With hindsight, I wish I had, but Doctor Cohen, a person whose advice has often proven beneficial with Sherlock, lead me to give their relationship the benefit of the doubt." This is followed by an uncharacteristically revealing sigh. "In fact, by all accounts, Victor Trevor would have been a perfectly suitable candidate for a normal romantic relationship. He is not, nor has he ever been a drug user; as a matter of fact, some habits he managed to introduce Sherlock to were actually wholesome. To all appearances, his behaviour with Sherlock was consistent with what one would call acceptable for a normal university student of his age and upbringing."

John raises his brows. "What was the problem, then?" Nothing Mycroft has told him points to it being a good idea to interfere, to go in all guns blazing. "Bad breakup? Did he dump Sherlock for someone else?"

"There was a Trevor family tragedy which led to their temporary separation; Sherlock failed to cope with that."

Mycroft leans back against his seat. He looks reluctant as he continues, as though he's divulging a truth he finds particularly distasteful. "Victor Trevor was not the problem; Sherlock was. While Victor Trevor may have been the poster boy of wholesome and normal, I hardly need tell you that Sherlock is anything _but._ His mental stability is fragile at the best of times and strained by the challenge of sustaining the social reciprocities required by any type of attachment to others. Emotions are difficult for him, and sexual intimacy seemed to multiply the problems. What happened with Trevor derailed Sherlock completely, to the point where it is only recently that I have come to hope he might be what could be called _recovered_."

The car comes to a halt because Baker Street is blocked by a truck double-parked alongside the Grosvenor Casino. Mycroft's driver taps his horn, but no one comes out to move the van. Mycroft leans forward. "Go around," he orders tersely.

The driver steers the car to the right kerb, mounts it slowly and drives along the wide pavement past the illegally parked vehicle, re-joining the road at the corner of Portman Square. John smirks. Highly illegal and under a traffic camera, too. _One rule for the rulers; another for the ruled._

John's wary. Adjusting his thinking, he banishes most of the images that had come to him in the night. Mycroft says Trevor wasn't abusive or violent and hadn't been into drugs, so is his reaction to the man's reappearance fair? He seems to be blaming Victor's very existence for something that he's saying wasn't really the man's fault. This is just Mycroft's version, and John hasn't yet heard Sherlock's—or Victor's, for that matter. There's also the fact that people change and grow; they would have been very young, then. Maybe both have gained a different perspective into what had happened; maybe this weekend is giving them a chance to clear the air. Is Mycroft's alarm really founded in reality?

John decides to probe a bit more.  "When I told you about Trevor, you said he wasn't allowed in the country. From what I could find online he's a British citizen, so how can you stop him?"

"Mister Trevor and I have a private arrangement. When he returned from the Antipodes, he was homeless, jobless and penniless. I provided financial support to allow him to be none of those things. Twice he gave me his word and signed a contract that he would not return to the UK nor have contact of any kind with my brother. The fact that he has done so now and in so flagrant a fashion means that I will have to enforce the terms of that agreement."

"You… bought him off _?!"_ _What is this, a throwback to the Regency period?_

"Let us say that, after said family tragedy, Mister Trevor found himself with very little choice, and he made the wise decision by taking my offer. Which he has now repudiated."

"Well, the guy is going to be a billionaire tomorrow; won't that cost you your leverage?"

"I have the means to destroy his company, and his reputation. I will not hesitate to do so if he has again damaged Sherlock."

John doesn't voice the question that this statement provokes: _what if Victor Trevor would be willing to make that sacrifice?_ What if Trevor cares more about Sherlock than he does his company?

John decides to take a different tack, addressing a worry that had come to him in the middle of the night: "What are the chances that this is actually Moriarty's doing? That somehow he's behind Victor Trevor's reappearance?"

As the car enters the one-way system around Grosvenor Square, Mycroft rubs his chin. "That thought had occurred to me as well. Part of what kept me busy last night is finding the answer.  After several hours of research, it would seem that there is no connection—at least not yet. Their collision at the night club on Friday appears to be coincidental, but it was very public. That is yet another reason why it's crucial to break up this little reunion of theirs as quickly as possible. Who knows what havoc Moriarty could wreak if he knew that there is more than one hostage whom he could take to destabilise Sherlock?"

That comment has enough bite in it to sting John. Mycroft clearly thinks of him as a weakness in his brother's armour. Given what had happened at the pool, John accepts that the judgment might be warranted. Sherlock had tried to get him to leave Baker Street in the early days after the showdown**, but over time has seemed to accept the fact that John had no intention of walking away. _Not before, and especially not now._ Sherlock has become an essential part of his life, and he has every intention of being there as back-up when things get nasty with Moriarty.

The traffic lights seem to be favouring their journey, as they turn onto Park Lane and head into the Hyde Park roundabout, which is swirling with early morning rush hour traffic. 

John is in desperate need of a coffee; his over-tired and caffeine–deprived brain keeps him suspicious of Mycroft's motives. It's exhausting, trying to wrench answers out of the man, even if in his current state Mycroft might be more prone to being honest.

John tries yet another tack. "What about his thing—you know, _that was then; this is now_ mantra?  Maybe this time, Sherlock's perfectly capable of just… well, having a good time. Until we have all the facts, is it fair to barge in and intervene?"

"Second thoughts, John? You disappoint me."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Mycroft looks down his nose at him, eyes steely. "You have become an important part of my brother's survival strategy. I am trusting you to keep him on the straight and narrow path, avoiding the worst of his impulsive risk-taking. Provoking Moriarty is one of those behaviours from which I would hope you could convince him to restrain himself. Given your own… _interest_ in Sherlock, I would have thought anything to remove a competitor for his affections would be a priority for you."

John rolls his eyes. "Not you, too. How many times do I have to repeat it? We're not a couple."  He sighs. "Never going to be one of those _happy announcements_ you threw at me the first time we met." There is no power on earth that is going to get him to confess to Mycroft what he hasn't been willing to admit to himself, or to Sherlock. 

"But you do _care_ for him."

It doesn't rankle, the fact that Mycroft has made this a statement rather than a question.

"Of course I do; he's my friend. Maybe that's why I am more willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. If this guy makes him happy, why should I be anything but pleased for him?" The words taste sour on his tongue, but if Mycroft needs a reminder that he's not, well, Sherlock's _minder_ , then John's loyalty as a friend commands that he deliver that. If it is at the expense of what other latent feelings he might have about Sherlock, then so be it.

"Ever the optimist, aren't you?"

"Better than always being the pessimist. What's Sherlock done to you that has got you so riled up? Enough to use this opportunity for some sort of… I don't know… show of power _?_ Or is this a form of revenge?"

"This is too important to play some game over. You may think of it as the triumph of experience over hope."

They don't speak again until the car parks near to the intersection of Regency Street and Vincent Street. Despite all his newfound knowledge, John has spent the last part of the journey continuing to worry about whether this is a good idea or not. Not able to put it off any longer, he asks, "Do you really need me to go in with you?"

Mycroft turns on the seat and stares at him in astonishment.

"Yes, _Doctor_ Watson, I do. I have no idea what we're going to find in there, but whatever it is, Sherlock needs to know that the two people in the world who care most about him are united in our concern about his well-being."

John hesitates. He does care, and is worried. Enough to be willing to risk Sherlock being pissed off at him if those worries prove to be unwarranted. Maybe if he does get angry it will at least give John an opportunity to talk about the whole topic.  It might even lead to a bit of honesty between them about how they feel about one another. That scares John witless, but he's not a coward. If Sherlock is going to kick him out because he cares enough to put his cards down on the table, well...maybe it's time.  Decision made, John says to Mycroft "I'm going to leave my medical bag in the car. I am here as his friend, not as his doctor."

Mycroft rolls his eyes. "Whatever…" and then he gets out of the car.

He walks to the car parked behind them and the window is rolled down. John is close enough to hear the person sitting in the driver's seat: "No movement from the flat since we arrived; two persons have exited the building, both females in work clothing, close enough visual scrutiny to confirm they weren't the targets."

"Thank you, remain _in situ_ and deter any unexpected departures _._ "

At this hour, the lobby of the block of flats is dark behind locked doors as John follows the older Holmes to the entrance. Mycroft walks over to the code pad on the side of the main door and slips a small box-shaped device onto it. Lights flash in a very rapid sequence and then there is the sound of the electronic lock being released.

John looks the other way to make sure no one is seeing this _Bond_ moment, and finds himself wondering if Mycroft has his own version of Q somewhere. "New toy?"

"No. You will deny having seen it, should anyone be foolish enough to ask."

John lets him lead the way to the stairs, and they climb in silence to the third floor. After walking down the corridor, they come to a stop in front of Number 312.

When Mycroft presses the doorbell, John mutters, "Bit old-fashioned?"

"Polite. Besides, we hardly want to catch them _in flagrante delicto_ ; rather embarrassing for all concerned."

The door is opened much faster than John anticipated. A fully-dressed Victor Trevor takes in the sight of the two of them on the doorstep, and his expression turns from initial surprise into an exaggerated roll of his eyes.

"Bloody hell. What took you so long, Mycroft? You're slipping." Victor walks away from the door, leaving it open for them to enter.

John steps out from behind Mycroft and gives the tall man a proper once-over. The tailor-made suit and dress shirt are smart; the ends of the expensive-looking silk tie hanging loose around his open collar. John's initial impression formed at the club is now reconfirmed in the morning light: the man fits nearly all the stereotypes of handsome. Tall, blond, broad-shouldered and well-muscled, blue eyes and a face that wouldn't look out of place on a Hollywood movie poster. A cleft chin and a strong jaw are complemented by a broad forehead, and Trevor moves with surprising grace for someone as big as he is. As different as night and day from Sherlock, and yet in his mind's eye, John sees them as equally matched. Put the two of them together in a room, and no one would look at anyone else. Least of all a short, ordinary bloke with bags under his eyes, a turned up nose and ash blond hair going grey.

"Welcome to my humble abode." Victor's turned and is standing with his hands on his hips, not in the slightest bit intimidated by the two intruders. There is no sign of Sherlock in the room.

On Friday night John had not actually stood this close to the blond, and their height difference now begins to annoy him. But, it just may irk John more that the man isn't trying to use it to intimidate him. Perhaps he is so supremely confident of his own superiority that he doesn't think John is a threat. After all, the man's not even looking at him but is staring at Mycroft, whose disdain is flirting with superior disapproval on his features. Victor doesn't even seem surprised, anymore, to see Mycroft; instead, he looks confident.

Being ignored and underestimated is something that gets right up John's nose. Makes him stand taller, tense his muscles, lift his chin. He looks around the flat. "Not what I expected from a multi-millionaire about to become a billionaire."

Victor ignores the comment; he's still focused on Mycroft. "And how good of you to bring John Watson. Did you think you would need reinforcements?" There is something in his tone of voice that niggles at John. Underneath the sarcasm, is there a bit of barely surpressed anger? It's hard to tell; he doesn’t know the man.

"Where is he?" Mycroft's question is terse.

"Bedroom, asleep; it is rather an ungodly hour. My car's due here in forty-five minutes so say your piece and be done with it."

"Doctor Watson, go wake my brother up and examine him to ensure he is not under the influence of drugs or come to another manner of harm."

Victor snorts. "Mycroft, don't be ridiculous.  We're both clean, and I'm sure your spies will have told you that drugs haven't been my habit in California, either. Sherlock is hardly the injured party here. Let sleeping brothers lie where they are for the moment."

As he unpacks in his head the meaning of Victor's assertion about who has been hurt, John is also deciding whether to do what Mycroft has asked. He hesitates, because the idea of barging into the bedroom and waking Sherlock up for a medical check feels much more of an intrusion than he's happy with making right now—not until they know more. 

Mycroft glares at John for his insubordination, but turns his attention back to Victor. "You dared to come here, break the terms of our agreement and see Sherlock. If you've hurt him, I will destroy you and your company."

"No need. Sherlock's managed the first of those things single-handedly without help from anyone."

"What have you done to him?"

Victor gives a pained smile. "Tried to love him."

"Unwise."

"This morning I am seriously tempted to agree with you."

"Trouble in paradise?" Mycroft is a master of the snide, cutting remark and he's unleashing his unadulterated version of it now on Victor.

Victor turns back towards the kitchen area. "I'm fixing a large pot of coffee because I am going to need the caffeine to get through the next few hours. Can I pour you both a cup?"

John says "yes" just as Mycroft says "no", and Victor laughs. "Well, it's nice to know that at least one of you is human." He busies himself with getting another mug out of the kitchen cupboard. "Black, or milk and sugar?"

"Milk, no sugar," John answers.

"All very civilised, I am sure, but it simply forestalls the inevitable." Mycroft walks to the closed bedroom door and opens it, taking a stride into it. " _Oh!_ "

The surprise in that exclamation is evident, and it makes John follow him in—to see what appears to be someone asleep under a duvet. Now used to looking at everything through the prism of a crime scene investigation, John's eye falls next on a squashed, nearly empty tube of lubricant on the bedside table and a waste-paper basket dragged close to the bed with an ample number of used tissues. He wonders how Sherlock's hypersensitive nose can put up with the aroma of masculine sweat and sex that even John's nose can register.

He glances at Mycroft with a question in his eyes, not daring to approach the immobile mound under the bedding.

"Trevor, are you playing games with us?" Mycroft directs this question back out into the living room.

"What do you mean?"

"Come see for yourself."

When Victor joins them at the threshold, Mycroft steps over to the bed and grabs a corner of the duvet, whisking the whole thing off the bed… to reveal nothing but a collection of pillows artfully arranged to mimic the shape of a body.

John snaps his attention to Victor's face in time to see a look of shocked surprise appear.

"What the hell.…?" Victor mutters. 

"When did you last see him?" Mycroft's question spoken through clenched teeth.

"Last night. Ten thirty or so, he went to bed and told me he was going to sleep alone."

Mycroft's left eyebrow rises. "Alone?"

Victor's face hardens. "Yes. We had a row; I slept on the sofa. He chucked all of my stuff into the bathroom and told me that he expected me to be gone by the time he woke up. If you could've been bothered to stop jumping to conclusions and let me explain, I would have told you that whatever you're worried about, you can stop. I'll be on my planned flight at noon, which I'm going to guess you already know about. Sherlock will _not_ be with me. To put it more succinctly, he never wants to see me again, never again wants to have any contact. _Happy_?" Victor's turn with a cutting tone.

"Delirious. If only I could believe you. If only I was assured of his current state, I would happily say goodbye to you and good riddance. But I can't afford to forget the aftermath of the last time you took a flight from the UK, namely that my brother tried to kill himself."

John sees Victor wince at Mycroft's last words. Unless the guy is an amazing actor, the sadness that takes root must be is genuine.

The imposing blond draws a shaky breath. "You don't have to worry about that. I don't know what the hell has happened to him in the past thirteen years, but clearly, he's tough as old boots now. He took what he wanted and is now done with me; I've been dismissed and discarded. I don't know when and how the hell he got out of the flat; I didn't sleep a wink last night, yet he must have gone past the sofa to leave."

The superior sneer on Mycroft's face puts an edge into his next words. "Sherlock has greater skill in escaping from secure facilities than you can possibly imagine. This flat would pose no challenge." He walks to the window, pushes the curtains aside and opens it to peer out. "French balconies. Convenient hand- and footholds."

John comes up behind him and looks down into the garden three storeys below. "Yep… Simple," he confirms.

He and Mycroft exchange glances. "Check boltholes again?" John asks.

Before Mycroft can answer, he hears the soft buzz of a mobile phone. Mycroft plucks it from his jacket, glancing at the screen on its way to his ear. "Yes?" Pause. "You're certain?" Mycroft murmurs, lifting his chin. Whoever's on the other end of the call must have confirmed because he follows immediately with a second question, "How did he look?"

John can see Victor is also trying to guess what is being said.

"Keep eyes on all exits. I'm on my way." Mycroft pockets the phone. "It would appear that Sherlock just walked back into Baker Street. John, I want you sit tight on Mister Trevor here until I can confirm that he is unharmed."

John opens his mouth to protest; the very last thing he wants is to linger behind in the company of Trevor now that Sherlock's been found. But, Mycroft silences him with a flick of his hand.

Victor sighs. "I told you, he's _fine_. Just great, I'm sure." There's a bitter edge to his tone.

"He'd better be," Mycroft warns. "If you make the mistake of thinking that the good doctor here is insufficient to hold you here, be aware that my people are watching the building. If I can confirm that my brother is unharmed, then you will be escorted to the Stock Exchange and then to your charter flight. If and _only_ if he is unharmed, this infraction will be overlooked—provided of course that you adhere to the terms of our agreement in the future. If my assessment is that damage has been done by this little… _tryst_ of yours, then you will be held until I can assess an appropriate course of action."

Victor's look of defeated, forced amusement is accompanied by a shake of his head. "Why does this threat not surprise me? You did the same sort of thing the first time I met you. How the hell do you get away with abusing your authority for personal reasons?"

Mycroft takes the two steps needed to put him into Victor's personal space. The blond holds his ground, which John notes with some respect. Not many people are willing to stand up to a Mycroftian power-play. Looking up, he pronounces in a cold monotone: "Her Majesty's Border Agency does not take kindly to its citizens using false passports to dodge proper entry proceedings. The Identity Documents Act of 2010 is clear: a person guilty of this offence is liable on conviction to imprisonment for a term not exceeding ten years and/or a fine. Furthermore, I would be delighted to encourage all of your new institutional shareholders to seek your disqualification as a company director. You might end up fighting this for years in the courts and boardroom, which might put a dent in your efforts to raise an investment fund. Think of all those good causes you want to support having to go begging elsewhere."

 _Ouch._ John has always known that Mycroft can be as menacing as all hell, but he's clearly thought about ways to hurt the man who is on the receiving end of this particular threat.

Victor is surprisingly unmoved. "You won't, because Sherlock is fine. Go talk to him yourself. Oh, and I told him about the shares being in his name, by the way. Didn't give a damn, which seems to be the general theme of his life, now."

"He's never had much sense when it comes to financial matters. Nor much sense about you either, when it comes to it." Mycroft is the one who breaks off the staring match with Victor.  Turning to leave, he says to John, "Try to find out more about the events of this weekend, John, while I survey what damage they have caused." He stops at the door to the flat. "I do hope that this is goodbye, Mister Trevor, for your sake as well as for Sherlock's."

Victor closes the door behind him and turns to John. "God, he is still the same prick he always was."

John nods an agreement.

The blond is smiling at him, if a tad tentatively. "Actually, this suits me perfectly. I kind of wanted to talk to you, and this gives us a private opportunity."

Victor moves around John, heading for the kitchen area. "Mind if we do it over breakfast? I'm running on empty here, and need something to eat before the car comes."

"Is he _really_ okay?" Whatever words had been exchanged between Mycroft and Victor, John feels compelled to ask again. He's been worried about Sherlock for weeks—well before this ex of his showed up on the scene. "I don't give a fuck about what's gone on between you and Mycroft and won't tell him anything more. I just need to know the truth."

Victor turns away from the open refrigerator to look at John.  He slowly nods his appreciation of the difference in the question coming from him than what he and Mycroft had been discussing. "Damn good question. Can I call you John? Seems a bit daft to keep up the _Doctor_ thing…"

John nods.

"Good… Because you and I need to talk. No, he's not okay, though I'm not even sure what that means. He's not alright, and that has very little to do with me, a bit more to do with this guy Moriarty and, just maybe a lot more to do with you."

John's face falls as he takes in Victor's words. A part of him desperately wants to hear the rest of what the man has to say. The rest of him would prefer to stay in the dark, lest things become even more complicated between him and Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's notes. *For the story behind the flat share and vetting, see my story "A Third Party" in the Got My Eye On You series, and also "Examine" Chapter 23 in the Ex Files, for Mycroft's POV on the scene where he first meets John Watson. **This is covered in the first story in my Game Theory Series, called Collateral Damage.


	19. An Awkward Conversation

**_———Four hours earlier———_ **

Sherlock has had enough of attempting to sleep. It's four in the morning, and ruling this weekend as a fiasco is an overdue conclusion; it's done nothing but make him feel worse about what is coming. What should have been a moment's breathing space—a legal alternative to getting high—has unleashed too many demons. All he can think of right now is his desperate need to silence what is going on in his head. Trapped in the bedroom, surrounded by the evidence of his failed attempt to lose himself in sex, all he can think of is his need to get away. Though he is beyond exhausted, anxiety is thrumming away in his blood, demanding action— _any_ action.

 _Just_ _move_!

Away from here, away from emotional complexities that only get in the way. Away from the one person who can read on him what he wants and cannot have, and flays him raw with that truth. 

_Escape._

When he drops the three meters between the first-floor balcony and the garden, Sherlock hopes that he can keep his balance and not have to roll. The grotty anorak is going to get wet in this downpour; no need to add mud to the insult. Luckily, the grass is forgiving, and his knees absorb the shock.

Just as he's about to spring into a run to get enough momentum to vault over the metal fence that separates the garden from the pavement alongside Vincent Street, he hesitates when a sudden, overwhelming sense of finality descends.

_I'm never going to see Victor again._

The only useful part of the weekend had been an opportunity to practice what he needs to _execute_ on John—a cruel enough severing of their relationship that it will protect the man. He had done it to Victor without much of an in-the-moment struggle, but the devastation he is leaving behind has not escaped Sherlock's notice. Victor had angered him by making assumptions about what he wants and how he wishes to live, but the sentiment behind those notions is genuine. Before Jack Trevor died, he did not doubt that Victor loved him. Victor was always good at reminding him of that. _Doing so in the first place was Victor's choice, Victor's mistake._

He glances up towards the flat. Curtains are drawn; the only things moving in that tableau are the heavy droplets from the weeping skies. He wrenches his eyes back to the ground, grits his teeth, and then he's off, running to get enough momentum to be able to use a step onto the damaged tricycle to gain enough height to vault over the fence. 

He doesn't give a damn anymore about CCTV cameras. If Elizabeth ffoukes has instructed her colleagues in the Security Services to keep an eye peeled for him, then so be it.  In a way, that is protection of a sort from Moriarty's spies, one of whom must be deep inside the security services. There have been too many coincidences for it to be anything other than a mole. In any case, Sherlock is done with hiding. Fuelled by a profound level of unease and anxiety, he intends to make his way back towards Baker Street. With every step, he tries to convince himself that he's ready. Perversely, the case is going to be the distraction he needs from his failure to deal with this wreck of a weekend and the revelations it has brought.

 _Focus on the case; get moving again on the Sigurson Plan_.

He needs to rip off the crime scene tape from the front door of his Mind Palace and get back to work. _Game on_ , he commands himself. But as soon as he gets into his stride on the pavement, he realises that he's fooling himself that thinking about the case is going to be enough. The exercise of walking cannot compete with the itch that is building inside. The struggle to defeat his body's demands for attention, for sensation, for something to drown out his thoughts is intensifying, and his thoughts are trying to wrestle free from his control. Rather than heading for the Moriarty Annexe in his Mind Palace, he's gone wandering down an old corridor, not visited in years. He's creeping back to old habits that have never really left him. He knows that this—this craving for oblivion, for all of this _mess_ to stop—will threaten to drive him toward drugs. The blessed release that heroin or morphine can provide exerts a magnetic attraction, a chance for his brain to stop, to rest, to reset, and his need is already singing in his blood.

Lit by the fuse of his anxiety, the siren voices are reaching a crescendo. His skin is crawling; he's grinding his teeth and the scrape of his clothes against his skin as he moves is setting off a firework display of synaesthesia. The squally shower throws turquoise spatters on the grey pavement; the air itself beats like a snare drum on his face. He can feel right through his clothes the sound of the cars passing, their lights sending sparks across his chest that taste of fig. If he didn't know better, he'd swear that he was coming down from a cocaine binge of monumental proportions.

 _Sex and drugs._ The two of them were never linked in the way that Mycroft and the therapists had thought all those years ago. It wasn't the sex that drove him to use after Victor abandoned him for Australia, it was the _lack_ of it. A body gorged on sensation and sentiment, emotion and lust, demands more and when it doesn't get it, it takes its revenge. Heroin or morphine proved the quickest relief. Sherlock knows he mustn't succumb, can't fall into that trap, not this time. Drug use will be found out. Mycroft will use it as the final proof that the Sigurson Plan has been flawed from the start because it relied on a junkie going without his fix. His brother is so sure he will fail; Sherlock is equally sure he has no choice but to stay clean. If John is to survive, then he has to go through with this and that means no drugs.

At least the rain on his face feels soothing, even if it is contributing to the sensory assault and soaking him. By the time he's been walking for ten minutes it's starting to seep through the seams of the cheap anorak and every step seems to make the coat heavier on his shoulders. It's a good thing: the cold and the weight start to deaden any other sensation. Pulling the hood up against the wind offers little protection; the water is already dripping down the back of his neck from the curls plastered against his skull.

His legs seem to know something that his brain is only just registering—his blind walking has taken him further away rather than closer to Baker Street.

_Not ready yet to face John._

Sherlock can't go back to the flat until he has shed these sentiments and physical cravings. He needs to endure a withdrawal, purge his emotions, slough it all off like some snakeskin… emerging pure again, able to focus on the sombre task at hand. 

Hyde Park won't be open for another hour, so he continues to head west and a bit south, picking up Warwick Way, taking it towards the barrier formed by the train tracks that go into Victoria Station. It's been a while, but he still knows the area well enough to find a private space. The estate on Peabody Avenue is still in the throes of demolition at the southern end. Empty blocks of Victorian housing will provide a bit of shelter from this rain and a chance to put himself back together. When he reaches the hording around the construction site at the end of Peabody Avenue, he is relieved to see that at least half of the estate is still standing and that two of the buildings just before the wooden fence are empty, abandoned until the construction team can get to them. In the six years since he was last here, almost thirty homes have been knocked flat, but at least one of these two should give him some shelter.

It only takes him a few minutes to get into the boarded-up building. Others have been here before him. He can scarcely see in the gloom, but finds matches and the stub of a candle amongst the debris of drug paraphernalia that is scattered on the ground floor, no doubt left behind after a binge. The sight re-awakens his craving to the point where he has to put his hand over the flame of the candle until the pain burns more than his need for drugs. Cold, wet and more than miserable, he turns away from the room and re-considers the stairs, where dilapidation and woodworm have taken a toll. There are risers missing, broken rails, and it creaks ominously as he ascends.

 _Good._ It's unlikely he will be disturbed here. Junkies prefer to take their risks at the end of a needle rather than chance a rotten stairwell. Once his back is against the wall on the second floor, he blows the candle out, letting the darkness soothe him. He can't see much and the smell of mould and decay overwhelms his nose, so he shuts down his senses as much as he can. At last, Sherlock can drag out into his consciousness what has been waiting down deep below, preying on his sanity without having the decency to come to the surface. 

This weekend has _changed_ him; made him aware of things that he'd rather not know; it's brought to his attention certain facts that he can no longer conveniently ignore. He feels thoroughly wretched, and the pain rips something from his lungs, a primitive howl of anguish that takes shape at the back of his throat, demanding to be heard. He clenches his jaw, lest it escape; then his ears register that it has somehow managed to wrench itself out nevertheless. 

This confounds him even more. How is he supposed to deal with this? How is he going to be able to be in the same room as John and retain control? How can he inhabit the same flat, pretending that nothing has changed? His body will betray him.  Hormones and emotions set free from their cage by a most reckless detour with Victor are making his very bones ache with longing. How can he fake the mask of cold indifference needed to see this through?

In his mind's eye, he can see himself sitting across from John. The fire is lit and it's late, just the two of them, as he calmly explains the whole of the Sigurson Plan.  He leans forward, eager for John to let loose one of those _amazing_ or _fantastic_ compliments that he used to say.

He loses control of the fantasy. 

Instead of impressed and congratulatory, John becomes outraged at being left out. He shouts that he will not forgive the lies that Sherlock has been telling him before now. He refuses to accept the plan, telling Sherlock he's being stupid, reckless, insane. He threatens to do anything and everything to keep Sherlock from executing what he calls _an insane stunt_ because he doesn't think anyone could survive such a thing.

A physical shake of Sherlock's head breaks the illusion. He _thinks_ he knows John, but given his poor skills at human interaction, _does_ he really? There is no way for him to predict with complete accuracy how John would react if he shared the details of the plan.

Still, as awful as John's anger and threats would be, that scenario is still better than another thought that seizes hold of Sherlock between its teeth, shaking him violently from side to side. The thought had not occurred to him before, but it does now: what if, in order to keep him from the Sigurson plan, John decided to take matters into his own hands? Whatever happened in those hours when Moriarty had held John hostage—before Sherlock had turned up at the pool for their midnight rendezvous—it had left mental scars on the doctor. Sherlock curses himself for never asking about it, never trying to defuse that bomb. The result—perhaps not preventable, but still—is that John hates Moriarty with a visceral rage and may even despise Sherlock for being willing to engage in his games. If he learns about the Plan, John might take it into his head to go after Moriarty, to try to kill him now, no doubt meeting his end in the process, most likely at the hands of one Sebastian Moran. Sherlock has just as much reason—no, even _more_ reason—to fear Moran than he does the Irishman*. Even if John managed to kill Moriarty, Moran would take his revenge. In either case, recklessness would be a death sentence.

Sherlock knows that if he tells John about the plan that he will at least be bullied into taking John with him. If he doesn't, John will still try to follow, or take action to try to forestall the whole thing.  Whichever it is—seeing John go off with his gun now or having him with him or follow when he goes undercover, the result will be the same—John's inevitable death.

Sherlock grabs his wet hair and yanks hard, growling with despair. _My need to protect him is my crucifixion_. Bile rises in his throat, making his stomach heave at the same time.  The very thought of dealing with John's death makes his heart hammer, his palms become sweaty and he starts to pant. He throws his head back to thump hard against the wall, hoping the pain will stave off the oncoming rush of panic. If the mere thought of telling the truth is enough to undo him now, how can he possibly take this risk? He is prepared to gamble with his own life, but not John's. Somehow, from somewhere he has to find the means to get through this on his own.

He goes into his Mind Palace and begins the process of de-fragging, deleting files corrupted by sentiment and re-organising his hard drive.** He has to put new firewalls in place and de-clutter everything that threatens his judgment. It will take time, but needs must.

oOoOoOoOoOo

When he lets himself into the flat three hours later, Sherlock has re-established some control, and can only hope that it will be enough. As he steps into the hall, he immediately deduces that Mrs Hudson is away, and wonders where she's gone and why. The woman's habits are as predictable as the tides; she always leaves the lamp on the hall console table on when she is away from home. Any burglar worth his salt would know this signal and proceed in the knowledge that they wouldn't find her at home.

Sherlock wastes no more time thinking about Mrs Hudson, at least not for any longer than it takes him to get to the top of the stairs.

That's when he starts to spot the signs that John, too, is currently out. _Good._ That gives him even more time to assume an air of normality. If he's lucky, John has taken an early locum slot at a surgery somewhere and won't be back until the evening. Shedding the damp anorak onto the Belstaff's customary peg, Sherlock takes off his sodden shoes, too, leaving them on the rack to dry. He slips into the living room and scans it for anything that might tell him where John might be and how long he has until he gets back. He spots his phone next to John's laptop on the desk and goes straight to it. Having it back in his possession again is somehow reassuring, a semblance of the normal order of things being restored. Thumbing it on, he notices the printed list of Chill member names that had been lying underneath the phone, which must mean that John had retrieved his draft message. That means the case will have moved on while he was… otherwise occupied. 

That's how he has dealt with the memories of this weekend—redefined the whole thing as a brief downtime, when systems had been taken off line for essential repairs. Now he's back in full running order, hard drive cleaned, damaged files deleted, fragmented code repaired. _In control_.

Even before the phone comes to life, he has opened the envelope also on the desk, recognising the brand used by the Met. Sliding out the two photographs, he holds up with his left hand the photo of the knife stabbed into the wig to he can look at it more closely. He selects the second speed-dial number listed and starts typing right-handed as he looks at the second photo.

**07.15  POWDER!  SH**

He's put the phone down to open John's laptop, but before he can deduce the password, the phone screen comes to life with a call from Lestrade.

He accepts it, snapping, "What?!" as soon as the connection is made.

"Where the hell have you been?!"" The DI sounds tetchy.

"Busy."

"Where's John?"

"Haven't a clue." The fact that the answer disturbs him is annoying, but then when Moriarty's people are bumping off prosecutors, losing track of John's whereabouts ought to be cause for concern. It's yet another reason why this weekend might have been a colossal cock-up from start to finish. _Of all the times…_

"He's looking for you. So is Mycroft."

"Why are _you_ calling me?"

"Care to translate your cryptic text?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes, a habit even when there is no one else to see it. Somehow it manages to ease a bit of the physical tension of having to deal with people whose minds are much slower on the uptake.

Dismissively, he snips, "Obvious."

"Not to me." Lestrade's level of anger sounds like it has just gone up several notches. "Explain."

"Oh for God's sake, use your brain. Have the _powder_ residue on the wig analysed. It's often used by barristers to keep their wigs clean; otherwise they can end up smelling musty. Horsehair does that, especially when the people wearing it are sweating about a courtroom trying to impress people with how brilliant they are." Now that the words are starting to flow again, they come out in a torrent. "Sending the wig off to get it cleaned professionally takes weeks, so a lot of barristers use powder to keep it fresh. The powder on this wig is going to have traces of cocaine in it, because the clerk at the chambers is his dealer; go arrest the man and you'll have the toxin vector. Maddox could afford the purer stuff; just take a sniff—it should smell sweet with tones that are a bit floral. You won't recognise it as anything special; you'd have to be me to know what it is for real. No doubt he keeps it in the tin with the wig. Maddox probably gave it a bit of a dusting before court cases, as a sharpener."

"What?! You're telling me he goes into criminal court _high_?!"

Sherlock lets his irritation show in a sigh. "Not now, seeing that he's _dead_. Past tense, remember? I'm not the only one who finds it useful for the brain work. Right now, I see you could also do with something… _anything_ … to raise your own game," he provokes. "Go find the clerk and see where he gets his supplies, because he's probably also the dealer for Maddox's party nights. It won't lead you back to Moriarty; he's too clever for that, but at least it will do something to satisfy our friends across the Atlantic who must be having kittens about one of their secret chemical weapons getting out."

"Are you going to tell your brother this, or shall I?"

"Do you really think he hasn't worked it all out yet?"

"He might have other things on his mind, like finding you. Not a great time to go AWOL, you know. Not with Moriarty's people on the rampage."

"He's not after me, at least not before he has his day in court. The stage has been set and the curtain will rise. He wants me to be there to witness his triumph. Just do your job, Lestrade. Leave the rest of it to the security services." Sherlock ends the call and tosses his phone back onto the desk. He needs a hot shower, a shave, clean clothes and then something warm to drink; being out in the cold and wet has given him a chill the modest warmth in the flat cannot cure.

oOoOoOoOoOo

When Sherlock comes down the hall from his bedroom, by the time he's taken two strides, he knows that there is someone else in the flat. A deep inhale though his nose tells him who it is, leading him to snarl, "What do you want?"

There's no immediate reply from Mycroft, who is sitting in the leather chair, eyeing him as he comes into the kitchen.

Sherlock puts the kettle on, and pulls a single mug out of the cupboard.  Smirking, he decides to use one of John's tea bags, knowing that his brother will be appalled. Not that he's going to offer him anything. The silence is broken only by the domesticity of tea-making; he straightens the back that he has turned towards his brother, letting his posture tell the man that he is not welcome in the flat. When he's let the bag steep long enough, he uses his spoon and the bag's string to squeeze the dregs, knowing that this will make Mycroft positively cringe. Smiling at the thought of being able to annoy his brother so easily, Sherlock takes his cup and goes to the sofa because he's not about to sit in John's chair.

Picking up a section of the Sunday newspaper that John has left on the coffee table, Sherlock snaps it open and puts it directly between him and Mycroft's eye line.

"You are hiding it well, but the evidence is still there."

"You're losing your touch. Can't believe it, can you?"

"Proof is required."

"Deductions not enough for you anymore? You _are_ slipping. Old age catching up?"

"Not for me, brother mine. For Elizabeth."

That annoys Sherlock to the point where he drops the newspaper and glares. "What poison have you been spreading?"

"She requires proof of your sobriety."

"Do you want me to pee in a cup?"

Mycroft reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a blood sample kit. "You'll need to do better than that." Throwing an icy smile in Sherlock's direction, he adds, "And three strands of your hair, pulled in my sight."

Sherlock considers the situation, and decides that this is going to be an important test of his recent compartmentalisation. If the walls he's just set up can maintain their integrity through this discussion, then it will be proof that he can deliver what is necessary to save John. Given that Mycroft has assumed the worst, it will do quite nicely to embarrass the hell out of him when he's proven wrong.

Sherlock gets up and goes to the table to retrieve his phone. Thumbs flying, he sends a text:

**08.43    Send courier now. Don't trust bro to test.     SH**

Dropping the phone back onto the table, Sherlock takes the two further strides necessary to bring him close enough to Mycroft so he can grab the package. He returns to the sofa, extracting the needle and fitting it onto the plastic connector and collection tube. Keeping his eyes locked onto Mycroft, Sherlock rolls up the left sleeve of his dress shirt and ties the blue stretchy rubber strap above the elbow, using his teeth to pull the knot tight—the practised moves of an addict who doesn't even have to watch what he's doing.

"Would you like to take a photograph for posterity?" Sherlock asks. "Pay particular attention to the lack of any new scarring and how easy it is to find a willing vein." 

He lifts his arm to give Mycroft a better view. Once he's dropped it back down, Sherlock tears open the sterile swab pad to clean the site above the median cubital vein. Now, he focuses his attention on the site, placing his right hand with the syringe against the skin and pulling it tight, towards his wrist before positioning the needle at a twenty-degree angle to the puncture site.  A confident push, and the needle penetrates through his skin and into the vein, and he then pushes the collection tube to puncture its seal. The tube fills within seconds. He keeps an eye on Mycroft, who has never once in all their years seen him work a needle like this. He's only ever seen the after-effects of Sherlock's drug use. _Feast your eyes, brother mine._  

When it's full, Sherlock draws out the tube, and places it down on the plastic packaging. He then releases the tourniquet to prevent the puncture wound from bleeding. This needle ensemble has a plastic guard which he quickly snaps into place before pressing the antiseptic pad over the puncture site. He then closes his elbow. "One is enough. You are enough of a blood sucker as it is."

Mycroft gets up and walks over to the coffee table, holding out an evidence bag. "Hair... Or shall I pull it out for you? Need to make sure there is a DNA tag, so follicle and all, please."

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock reaches in and takes a hold of a strand of still damp curl. Giving it something of a savage yank, he winces and then holds out what appears to be more than the required three. The pain is useful—it sharpens his focus and starts adrenaline flowing even more. Anger is doing a great deal to keep his anxiety tells at bay. The compartment walls around Victor and John are still intact, showing no signs of weakness. 

Mycroft collects the hairs into the evidence bag and then seals it. When he starts to reach down for the blood sample, Sherlock intervenes, covering it with his own hand. "No. Not you. I don't trust you not to interfere with the analysis. Elizabeth is sending a courier."

The tiniest of hesitations from Mycroft confirms Sherlock's suspicions and he reaches up to snatch the evidence bag away from his brother, yelling "Bloody hell. You _were_ intending to fake the results!"

Mycroft raises an eyebrow and gives one of his icy smiles. "Well, someone needs to put an end to the farce this was to begin with. One you have now elevated to a veritable crisis."

"You are _so_ wrong."

Mycroft meanders back to his chair and sits down, crossing his legs and resting his elbows on the arms. "I've conversed with your paramour." 

Sherlock snorts. "A rather ridiculous word choice."

"Given the amount of bodily fluids evident about that bedroom, I can think of no better word. Enjoyed yourself, did you?" He raises an eyebrow that manages to convey both distain and disgust at something he considers puerile.

Sherlock doesn't deign to answer. There is no point; _don't feed the troll_. 

Mycroft continues, "Trevor's repented of his folly; in some ways he may always have been the more sensible one of the two of you. Seems you've done my job for me this time. I doubt he will be returning to the UK anytime in the foreseeable future. I have to say, it was much cheaper on this occasion."

The thought of Mycroft bribing Victor to stay away all those years ago annoys Sherlock to the point where he decides that enough is enough. He's got one more thing to do before he can lay the ghost of Victor to rest, and this is it. "You've always tended to think throwing money at a problem you've created makes it go away. I don't make the same mistake."

"Mistake?" Mycroft allows his surprise to show, before adding, "As mistakes go, Victor Trevor must rank up within the top three errors of your life."

Sinking back onto the sofa and putting his feet up on the coffee table, Sherlock gives a cold grin. "And, as the self-appointed tally-keeper of my many indiscretions, you're now itching to tell me now what the other two are… Can't resist the opportunity to pontificate, can you? Ever care to turn that all-seeing reptilian eye to your own skeletons, Brother Mine?"

"Opting for self-medication has to be your worst failing, and one you seem determined to repeat on a regular basis. But insisting on defeating Moriarty on your own is perhaps the worst mistake."

In one sense, Sherlock is relieved to hear this. Nothing new has been deduced. The problem of John has escaped Mycroft's notice, perhaps because his brother thinks he has suborned the doctor. The fact that John is not in Mycroft's company now is unsettling. _No. Stop this._ The less he thinks of John, the better, because it undermines the strength of the wall he's erected between himself and his feelings.

He sits up to take a swallow of his tea, using the action to buy some time. How should he direct this conversation away from things he doesn't want to talk about?

While he is working this thought through, Mycroft continues, "Of course, with this current little lapse of yours with Trevor, you've managed to combine all three of your… greatest hits."

"I'm clean." He blurts it out, goaded into it. Recovering his poise, Sherlock ripostes. "You like to think the worst of me. Nothing ever changes. You did the same back then, always assumed you knew better than me _why_ I did things."

Mycroft senses a weakness and comes in again. "Your lack of insight is glaringly obvious, so someone else has to trace the cause of your crises. Oftentimes, professionals have been required for that. But, that's the past, as you are forever trying to insist. However, even if the test comes back without proof, what about the future? Am I going to have to get in supplies of naltrexone for the good doctor to have on hand when your current resolve slips? I could encourage Elizabeth to use the flat as a training facility for her people, perhaps even suggest a sniffer dog to root out any hidden stashes." 

"Don't be absurd. She won't play your games, Mycroft. Try it and I will escalate. Could get the recusal extended even further; suspension from your duties? _Gardening leave_? You seem to forget that I hold the better hand this time. It isn't like it was in 2001. And don't pat yourself on the back about that. If you hadn't interfered, who knows what might have happened? I didn't use drugs then until _you_ drove me to it. I don't blame Victor for what happened; I blame _you._ If you hadn't schemed to ruin any chance I ever had of being with him, we might be having a very different conversation."

Or would they? As soon as his words left his mouth, Sherlock wonders if the tragedy of Jack Trevor had never happened, where he would he might have ended up. He doubts it would be with Victor. He may blame Mycroft for many things, but he knows it's his own inability to form meaningful relationships which would, in all likelihood, sooner or later have unravelled their union. He hangs onto his anger, seething that at least that would have been his own decision, rather than being forced on him.  

He's worried that thinking too much about what's inside the walled-up cell in his Mind Palace with Victor's name on it will lead him to thinking about who's in the cell next door.  Sherlock needs to keep Mycroft's attention on Victor rather than John. Fortunately, his brother seems oblivious to what's going on in his head, continuing, "You were never willing to talk about it after they finally let you out of rehab. Are you now?"

Sherlock shrugs his nonchalance. "You didn't need me back then to tell you how your meddling had created the problem. Even Cohen agreed, and your own conscience should have told you that."

Mycroft laughs. "Conscience? You think I've got one? Now I know you are delusional."

Sherlock takes another sip of his tea. "Of course not. The past thirteen years have proven to me what I only suspected back then. Now I know that you're the monster here, not me. If you'd not stopped me from going with Victor to Auckland, my whole life could have been different.  I might have ended up happy." He pulls an exaggerated frown. "But that wouldn't have worked for you, would it, because you've always pictured yourself as my saviour. You have to meddle enough to destroy whatever chance I have to make my own decisions. That's really why you are pissed off about my current arrangement with Elizabeth when you should be nothing but relieved to the point of ecstatic. How very revealing what you think my three greatest failings are; in fact, all of them are the result of _you_ and your meddling."

Mycroft is shaking his head. "I'm not the one making up fairy tales, Sherlock. Making me the villain absolves you of all responsibility. I have spent a lifetime cleaning up your messes, based on your mistaken premise. This morning was no different."

"As you just pointed out, you didn't have to do anything this time; Victor is leaving of his own accord. If you hadn't interfered years ago, he might have avoided years of misunderstanding. You damaged him, for no good reason." He stabs his finger at Mycroft. "You should have let him come and go as he pleases. You've meddled with his rights as a citizen for long enough; he poses no threat to me that would require your interference. Never did, for that matter. And never will in the future, as he won't be seeing or contacting me ever again. Nor I him."

That gets him another raised eyebrow. "So, you're off love now, are you? Did he fail to meet with your expectations, now that you have your live-in doctor to focus on these days?

 _Damn you to hell, Mycroft!_ Inadvertently, Sherlock has led his brother towards the forbidden topic. Sherlock knows exactly what Mycroft is trying to do; the goading is blatant.

He tries very, very hard to mask any anger in his reply. "You have no idea what you are talking about. It must be embarrassing, having to admit that you are so wrong about John. That you have so underestimated a person, so misjudged their motivations. Mycroft, not everyone just sees the world as something to eat, destroy or _fuck_." He knows how much his brother detests profanity.

"Are so very sure of my miscalculations regarding your good Doctor Watson's motivations? Ah, yes, you weren't there, having taken the coward's way out, abandoning the scene of your crime. Your _cher_ _cohabité_ didn't like your Mister Trevor, not one bit. I left them to it." Mycroft smirks. "I wish I had thought to leave a bug behind; it would have been amusing to hear them."

The thought of John talking to Victor alone rattles Sherlock. Successful compartmentalisation needs to keep the two men separate in his head. The idea of cross-contamination sends a tremor through those walls, and he will need time to reinforce them. He's more than a little uneasy, but he hides it from Mycroft. No need to let him know anything more than he's already been able to deduce. No matter how much he has de-fragged and compartmentalised things, his brother's keen, experienced eye may pick up on something incriminating. _Time to distract him._

"What do the Americans think about Moriarty's latest trick? Must make them a little anxious, seeing how much they take pride in their ability to control Botulinum H."

"They'll get over it."

His choice of words ricochets around in Sherlock's head. Not a tricycle this time, but another toy that's been damaged, this one belonging to the Americans. His brother's nonchalance about it all makes Sherlock wonder if, when he pushed Victor away last night, he had been subconsciously channelling Mycroft's oh-so-superior attitudes towards relationships and any form of intimacy. 

Before he can respond with something more about the Moriarty case, Mycroft interrupts, "Whatever the tests might show, drugs are only a part of the picture. You have been unsettled by this reunion. Given how you ended up the last time you and Victor separated, might we expect a relapse? How vulnerable are you?"

"I'm not."

"What, not at all?"

"I _really_ am not."

"Oh, dear. Are you planning to evict the doctor then?"

"Thanks to Elizabeth, that's none of your business."

"You've made sure of that, haven't you? Hiding behind her skirts…" He tuts. "There is no way that Moriarty could defeat the both of us, yet I see you continue to be stupid enough to try to take him on by yourself."

Mycroft takes his leg crossed over his knee back down to the floor and leans forward in the chair. "You will fail, Sherlock. The only question is whether the stress and strain of it all pulls you apart at the seams _before_ or _after_ Moriarty's trial."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. " _Dear God_. I do so hope that someone is recording this conversation. It's going to be so much fun to throw it back in your face when you are proven wrong.  Get out, now, before I chose to remove you myself!"

Mycroft is still smiling, but it comes nowhere near his eyes. "I can't go as long as those samples are here. You'd try to doctor them if I didn't stop you."

"And we both know that if you had them in your hands, you'd falsify the results. You taught me well."

Whatever Mycroft might have said in reply gets drowned out by the sound of the doorbell, followed by a vigorous one-two rap of the brass door knocker.

Sherlock gets up to look out of the window and sees the motorcycle courier on the doorstep. "Good.  I won't have to deal with the stench of your presence any longer. You can watch me hand over the samples to the courier and then leave." He heads downstairs.

After giving the package to the courier, Sherlock watches his brother get into the back seat of the government car. Before he shuts the front door, he twists the door knocker savagely to the right, leaving it askew, but it does little to assuage the fear that is lurking in the back of his mind.

_Where are you, John? What is Victor telling you?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Why he fears Moran is covered in Collateral Damage.  
> ** This process of managing his Mind Palace is covered in considerable detail in another story of mine, Defrag.


	20. An Equally Awkward Conversation

"…No, he's not okay, though I'm not even sure what that means. He's not alright, and that has very little to do with me, a bit more to do with this guy Moriarty and, just maybe a lot more to do with you."

Now that Mycroft has left, Victor is telling the truth to John. He sees the effect his words have on the doctor, and worries whether it will be enough. Watson isn't at all what he expected; he's been surprised at the apparent ordinariness of the man: short, dressed in rather boring clothes. Compact, yes, but he's doing a lot to disguise whatever muscles might be hiding under the well-worn cardigan. Of all the people that Sherlock might choose to love, Victor would never have picked someone like this. Watson's a bit older than his blog had made him seem—more serious, too. He wears his military service in his stance, a keen alertness and a set to his shoulders and chin. His behaviour since he arrived at the flat is not that of a jealous boyfriend, which is making Victor realise that Sherlock might be right that Watson doesn't care about him like that.

Will being a platonic friend be enough? Sherlock needs more, _deserves_ more _._ To hide his confusion and give himself time to think, Victor turns to the kitchen. Slipping out of his suit jacket and taking the tie off, too, he puts on an apron. He gets busy, pulling out eggs, butter, a block of cheddar cheese that they hadn't had time to eat. That and a bit of bread is all that is left. He makes a mental note to remind himself to take out the rubbish when he leaves, and to put the sheets into the laundry basket in the bathroom. No need for the student to return in ten days' time to find a mess. Oddly, these domestic chores give him something to focus on, rather than the aching hole in his heart. Once he gets back to California, he will ask the boy's father what an appropriate thank-you gift would be.

The thought of home makes Victor pause, to fight off a tide of painful emotion that makes his eyes prickle. He'd never anticipated the earthquake of seeing Sherlock again on this trip. And yet, he knows that however painful the outcome, he'd do it all over again, just to have the chance to be with Sherlock again.

Watson has followed him into the kitchen area. Putting his empty coffee cup on the kitchen table, he lifts his chin and says rather abruptly. "You can't just _say_ that he's not alright; _explain_." 

When Victor glances up from the frying pan, after dropping some butter in, he says calmly, "Omelette okay for you?"

"Might be more important to answer my question than play chef right now."

Victor does pick up on the man's anger, but is it being driven by jealousy?  He decides against provoking it more. "I'm guessing here, but you probably do this sort of thing for Sherlock, don't you? Cooking, making sure he functions more or less normally? Remembers to eat, sleep, that sort of thing?"

"None of your business."

Victor cracks the four eggs into the pan before turning to look at the Doctor. "Actually, it is. If I don't think that he's going to get the support he needs right now, then I'll call Mycroft and tell him that he needs to do something about it. Because right now, Sherlock's mind is not on looking after himself. I think he's worrying himself sick about this Moriarty thing."

Watson walks over to the coffee maker and pours himself another cup. As he tops up the cup with a splash of milk, he says tersely, "Tell me what you meant about him not being okay. What have you done to him?"

So, Watson _is_ being protective.  Maybe there is something there after all, hidden inside Sherlock's vehement denials of their involvement beyond friendship.

Victor takes a risk. "He wanted a break. Needed to release…a bit of frustration, maybe about the company he's been keeping these days." Is it his imagination, or does Watson flinch a little at that? He pushes the point. "I was convenient, and someone he trusted. He doesn't trust many people, which I'm going to guess is something you know very well."

Watson lifts his chin. "From what I've heard about your relationship with him, I'm not seeing why he would trust you. Maybe you’re a big part of the reason he doesn't trust people at all anymore, and why he thinks emotion in general is something to be avoided at all costs. What did you do to him?"

Victor turns away and starts grating cheese. "I'm going to assume that you don't believe everything Mycroft Holmes tells you." After he glances at the clock, he continues. "And you shouldn't start now. We've got just enough time to correct whatever lies he's told you. What do you want to know?"

The question seems to throw the doctor. "Is it right to…betray his trust by talking to me?"

Victor hears the contradiction between wanting to know and not wanting to know. As he gently stirs the eggs in the frying pan, he answers, "If you're going to be there for him now, you need to hear the truth. Mycroft has his own version. Someone needs to redress the balance, even if Sherlock won't. He won't be alright unless and until you understand. So, what do you need me to explain?"

"Not just you," Watson scoffs. "I'm looking forward to _his_ explanation about what the hell he thinks he's playing at, disappearing with you when Moriarty is out there sending him messages by killing people. I've never known him to leave a case mid-stream. Normally, he doesn't eat, hardly sleeps, won't stop for a minute until he's solved it."

"Sounds exhausting."

"Yeah, well. He's like that."

"I wasn't talking only about him; I was talking about you being exhausted. You must worry about him."

That gets a tight smile and a hum of agreement. "That's why I'm here.  How worried should I be about what you've done to him? Mycroft seems to think of you as a bigger threat to his brother than Moriarty is, but he somehow still blames Sherlock for all of it."

"Mycroft's an idiot." Victor puts the bowl of cheese next to the frying pan.

"Hmmm, not sure I agree with you on that. Annoying, irritating, interfering…yes, he ticks all those boxes. But as long as I've known him, he's done these things because he worries constantly about Sherlock, too. He is _definitely_ worried about you. But I like to make my own judgments. I don't know you…what your intentions are, and what kind of threat you pose to Sherlock. Maybe you should enlighten me."

"My… _intentions_." Victor laughs. "He's not some Bronte heroine whose affections are being abused by a dastardly villain. What I want and what Sherlock would agree to are two different things. If I could, I'd take him away from all this."  He stops stirring the eggs, letting them settle. "Moriarty, death threats, the pressure of having to be the _celebrity detective_ to keep the world at bay—I'd take him far away from all that, because I love him and I can see what it's doing to him." Victor rummages in the cutlery drawer for knives and forks, handing these over to the doctor. "Set the table; plates are in the dishwasher." 

He drops the cheese onto one half of the eggs, slips a spatula under the set eggs and folds the other half over, then grabs the bread and shoves it into the toaster. "I love Sherlock enough to know that he needs someone to understand things that he's never going to willingly tell you."

"Sounds condescending, even patronising." 

There it is again; the barely suppressed anger.  Victor smirks. "You _really_ want to dislike me, don't you? I can hear it in your tone of voice."

"According to Mycroft, you're the reason why Sherlock left university and tried to kill himself. How would that make me like you?" 

That's blunt to the point of rudeness, but clearly Watson doesn’t mind. Victor answers quickly, "Maybe that's because _he's_ the problem, not me. If Mycroft hadn't stopped Sherlock from coming with me to Auckland, I'm convinced none of that would have happened. Always worth hearing both sides of the story before jumping to conclusions, don't you think?"

After putting the dishes and cutlery out, Watson takes his coffee cup and sits down on the opposite side of the table, crossing his arms and glaring as Victor turns his back to look at the eggs again. He can feel the intensity of the gaze, even though he's not facing him. Victor sighs. "Just ask."

"Did you take advantage of Sherlock? His brother insinuates that you did."

Victor is appalled at the question and pissed off at Mycroft for even suggesting it. He turns around to look directly at the doctor. "No. Absolutely not. Not the way you seem to be thinking. We were friends first. He was the most extraordinary person I'd ever met, still is. Genius—you don't need me to tell you that—but shy, awkward around people." He waves the spatula at the doctor. "He was totally wrapped up in his chemistry work, obsessed, passionate about it and utterly brilliant. His professor said he would end up with a Nobel Prize if he kept at it.  Sherlock used that tongue of his to put everyone off, lest they get too close. Other students treated him horribly; he had no friends, was the butt of jerks like Sebastian Wilkes, and my ex-girlfriend. No one understood his sensory issues; he wouldn't let anyone near enough to find out. He preferred being seen as a prick than letting anyone actually get to know him."

"Why did you seduce him?"

Victor snorts. "You're really trying hard to cast me as a villain here, and it's not going to work, no matter how much you want that so you can easily explain away everything. Did Mycroft tell you that?"

"No, he…" Watson hesitates. "He admitted that for some time, you two seemed to be doing okay."

Victor smells cooking egg, so turns back to the stove and uses the spatula to lift the edge of the omelette, peering under it to see how done it is. "Nobody seduced anyone; we spent months as friends. I let him stay at the flat at first because he clearly needed help with an injury, and later I kicked my girlfriend out because she was beastly to him. That's when he moved in properly.  So, like you two, we were flatmates. It took a time for either of us to realise that there was more to it. Whatever you might think, he wasn't a virgin and neither was I, but when the sex happened, it happened out of love and a lot of it was new for both of us. He brought out the best in me. Made me see things I'd never understood about myself." He flips the omelette over.

In his peripheral vision, Victor sees Watson shake his head, as if in disbelief.  It annoys him enough to continue. "My Sherlock was sweet, kind, loving, devoted, generous to a fault." He wonders if he should, and then just does it: "He's also fucking _amazing_ in bed—all that sensory awareness deployed and just totally uninhibited." He lets that sink in, a part of him enjoying the look on Watson's face in which shock flirts with scarcely concealed fascination. "Maybe one side of him you have seen is how fiercely loyal he is, and he was definitely that in the face of anyone questioning me and my choices.  Whatever the hell Mycroft wants to think, he's _wrong_. We were so in love, and we were happy, _both_ of us. It was a committed long-term relationship. We planned carefully: another year in Cambridge, me to do my MBA, him to continue on and get the MSci, and then we'd set up a company and spend the rest of our lives together."

"If it was all hearts and flowers, then what went wrong?" Watson's sarcasm teeters on the edge of accusing him of lying.

"My father.  He was a raging homophobe and when he found out, he disinherited me. And then he died of a heart attack.  The circumstances of his death were peculiar, and Sherlock turned that mind of his to solving what I suppose could be seen as his first proper case. His determination to find the truth tore the heart out of me. I was grieving for a father, and Sherlock showed me just who that person was—a brute of a man. Thanks to Sherlock, I discovered that he wasn't even my biological father, and he mistreated my mother before she died when I was three. Jack Trevor's best friend turned out to be my father, and I turned out to be the bastard kid of a rapist. Based on Sherlock's deductions, I went half way around the world to prove the true horror of my family background.  When I got back, I found what the cost of Mycroft keeping him in the UK had been for Sherlock. He intercepted and blocked our communications, and probably spent all the time of my absence poisoning Sherlock's mind into thinking that I didn't love him anymore, that he wasn't capable of being loved and loving in return. That he was better off alone."

Watson appears to be unconvinced. "If you were so important to him, then why hasn't he ever mentioned you? People who've known him longer than me have never heard of you either. Maybe he didn't see things the way you did. Maybe it's just some fantasy of yours—what you're describing doesn't fit with the Sherlock we know. Love isn't in his vocabulary, unless it’s a motivation for a particularly gruesome murder case he's trying to solve. He describes it as a hormonal defect that is responsible for far too many homicides."

The toaster pops up and Victor grabs the slices, buttering them quickly. "Yeah, I get that now. He's re-invented himself as this machine with no feelings. It's a pretty convincing act, but I don't buy it. _Sociopath_?" He snorts a disagreement, adding. "I don't think you buy it either, judging by the way you describe him on your blog."

Victor cuts the folded omelette in two, sliding the cheesy, gooey eggs onto the two plates.  He pushes one across the table at Watson and then takes his own seat, picking up his fork before he answers. "It's probably just easier for him. Like using his ability to read people as a way to defend himself. Attack is the best defence and all that other rubbish that Mycroft must have taught him." 

Victor takes a bite of the omelette and realises that he is hungry. Eating also gives him a chance to stop talking and deal with the sadness that Watson is stirring up. That Sherlock could have come to this point, of denying what Victor knows is in his nature—it is all so distressing.  He'd seen bits of it on Friday night, but had hoped to break through the barriers Sherlock had kept up between the two of them. Only the sex seemed to shift it, but without words there were no tools at Victor's disposal to begin remedying the damage done by thirteen years of loss. Now, his failure is carving a big hole in his composure. He needs to get a grip; if he isn't going to be allowed to help Sherlock, then he can't afford to waste this opportunity to get John Watson to see what he needs to do.

The doctor has taken several bites of his breakfast, but now looks at Victor with a frown. "As I understand it, Mycroft bought you off. So, whatever you might have thought or felt about Sherlock, he wasn't worth much to you."

"Sherlock broke it off, not me. I've never stopped loving him. Back in 2002 he was the one who returned my letters unopened. Mycroft's interfered twice, making it clear that if I made contact, he'd take legal action. I've tried twice—well, three times if you count this weekend—to see him. Third time lucky, I guess. Or unlucky. It seems I've waited and hoped for thirteen years—just to be told that he doesn't love me anymore." 

"Maybe he never did, and it was just wishful thinking on your part."

Victor puts down his cutlery. He's almost grateful for the anger that is flooding over him, because it helps keep other emotions at bay. "You don't get it, do you? You weren't _there_. You didn't know him thirteen years ago, and it's not your right to define what he's capable of because I know better. Is it so hard to believe that Sherlock can love someone?"

John has finished his half of the omelette and leans back in the chair. "Yeah, actually, it is."

"You're wrong," Victor says, then pauses to consider, for the final time, whether it's his place to say the next words burning in his head. A part of him wants payback for the way he's been treated, but another part worries if he'll only make things worse by revealing what Sherlock seems so crushingly adamant to take to his grave. "He's just as capable of love now as he was back then, but just better at hiding it, even from me. And the trouble is, it would appear that someone else is the centre of his attention now."

"Moriarty?"

Victor laughs at how ridiculous this idea is. "No. _You._ He loves you."

There is a snort, accompanied by a resigned shake of Watson's head. "No, he doesn't."

"John… he _loves_ you."

"Could have fooled me. Lately, he's been treating me like something stuck to the bottom of his shoe, fit only to be scraped off. Stuck me in a taxi like some spare wheel and climbed in the back of your limo. I'm not the one he chose to shack up with for the weekend."

"If he'd asked, would you have?"

"He knows better than to have asked. I'm not gay."

"Neither am I."

John can't resist raising a sceptical eyebrow. "I saw you two kissing. I've been in the bedroom.  The evidence says otherwise."

Victor shrugs. "I'm bi, suspected when I was younger and very much confirmed when I fell in love with him. Most of my dating has been with women; I even married one, before realising that no one else of either sex will ever match Sherlock. In any case, orientation is kind of irrelevant when it comes to Sherlock, isn't it?"

"What do you mean by that?" Watson sounds suspicious and curious in equal measure.

"Loving Sherlock isn't a gender thing; it defies explanation. If you love him enough, then labels don't matter at all. They never do to him. They shouldn't to you."

Victor decides he's running out of time; he's going to have to be blunt. "Do you love him enough to save him, John? That's what I want to know."

oOoOoOoOo

The question startles John, so he dodges it, getting up and walking to the sink. He uses the excuse of washing up to keep his back turned on Victor.  As the hot water starts to fill the sink, he considers what he's just been told.  Despite the man's obvious sincerity, to John not much of Victor's explanation makes sense. The blond's description of his and Sherlock's relationship couldn't contrast more sharply with how the Sherlock John knows behaves. Although he had seemed to open up a little, soften around the edges after the first months of their cohabitation, now he's back to being arrogant to the point of rudeness, dismissive of emotion or any form of social relationship. All in all, Sherlock seems to have recently reverted to his standard, cold public demeanour even with him. Whatever thaw they had achieved—forming a connection that moved them from being flatmates to colleagues and onto friendship—seems to have frozen over again since Dartmoor.

At first, John had blamed Moriarty for the change, even to the point of arguing with Sherlock about his need to care for the victims of their little game. But, Sherlock didn't have Moriarty to use as an excuse for his little experiment in the Baskerville lab; doing that didn't sit at all comfortably with any definition of friendship John knows. His tetchiness and bad mood since their return—especially after Mycroft had dried up the flow of cases—hasn't helped, either.  And now Sherlock seems to be withdrawing even more, not talking, not discussing what is going on. Clearly, _something_ is going on; John realises that he's being very deliberately kept out of it, pushed away.  He's feeling more than a bit redundant and it's making him grumpy as hell. And not very prone to taking the arrival of Victor Trevor kindly. 

"Well?"  Behind him Victor sounds like he is getting impatient. "Does it really take this long for you to come to a decision? Do you love him?"

Drying his hands on a kitchen towel, John turns to face his questioner. "Why do you think I'd want to pick apart our relationship and share it with you? What does romantic love have to do with it? He doesn't want it. I'm not sure he'd know what to do with it, even if someone did give it to him. I've always assumed he's asexual, that his sensory issues meant he wants nothing physical with anyone, ever."

Victor gives him a startled look. "You wouldn't say that if you had seen us here, and if you had seen us together thirteen years ago. Christ, even that kiss at the club on Friday night tells you differently. In the space of forty eight hours, he and I had sex more often than I've had with anyone in a decade or more."

John winces at the thought. _Too much information._ Then again, why does he find all that so hard to believe or contemplate? When that kiss had made him adjust his understanding of just what Sherlock thought of sexual attraction, John had felt twinges of jealousy, and then frustration that he's never dared to act on the attraction he had felt towards Sherlock.  If he hadn't had ideas of his own, wouldn't John have been happy for his friend to have gotten his leg over? It just seems _wrong_ in the context of Sherlock; it makes no sense, given the man's behaviour.

Victor shakes his head. "He needs to love and be loved just like anyone else. He says he hasn't had anyone, hasn't been with anyone properly in thirteen years, and that's just…"

"What if your experience with him led him to make a vow to remain celibate, hmm? Been there, done that, licked his wounds? That's what Mycroft thinks; you're a relapse into a habit he's kicked." John wonders whether it's a bit like the solar system, maybe Sherlock had deleted sex, too? John tries to imagine his reaction to this conversation. He'd be ruffling his hair in frustration, moaning, _"What does it matter?!"_

Victor is still looking at him, expecting an answer.  Then, the taller man frowns. "You came here because you were worried. You're protective of him.  Did you want to be his white knight, rescuing him from the big bad ex-boyfriend? Is this part of what you see as your role? Is this how you justify your existence to him? _What are you?_ Are you just his keeper? A live-in minder?"

The words being thrown at him sting, and that surprises John. From the moment he'd pulled the trigger on his gun to stop Jeff Hope from poisoning Sherlock, John has had to wrestle with this conundrum. Why did he do it? He'd killed a man, not accidentally, not out of a sense of military duty; he did it to protect Sherlock…from himself.  The cabbie had only created the conditions; Sherlock was the one who had decided to take the pill, just as Sherlock had voluntarily climbed into the back of Victor's limo, to spend the weekend with him. John had overcome his own qualms about intruding, because he was worried about Sherlock. _Why?_

"So you do _care_?" Victor's not letting him off the hook.

"Course I do. He's my best friend."

"Just friends?"

He rolls his eyes. " _YES._ Not that it's any fucking business of yours. _"_

"If I were you, I'd have crossed the boundary before now. Whatever has been the case in your past together, do it _now_. Become more than a friend to him. If you want to keep him safe, you have to do it, to love him properly."

"He doesn't want that from me."

"Given you've never had the balls to try, how the hell can you know that?"

John shrugs. "I just do." He also knows that he couldn't live with being rejected by Sherlock, that he'd be risking their friendship if he judged it wrongly.  He'd have to leave the flat, stop working with him… _no, it's not worth the risk_.

Victor can't know what John is thinking, but he isn't convinced by his answer. "Just because he might think he _shouldn't_ want you to… it isn't the same, you know. It doesn't mean he doesn't love you. I think he does. It's there in everything he says about you. He thinks it's safe because you'll never love him back. He knows what he wants, and he thinks he'll never get it from you. This weekend? I know now that I was just a poor substitute, but at least I was available. If I've learned anything this weekend, it's that he really, really needs you to love him back, because he doesn't want that from me anymore, and the way he was this weekend… I think he's really lonely, John."

"I doubt that. You told me that I can't know how things were all those years ago, but it's you who doesn't know how they are right now. You said you ended up in a romantic relationship that developed out of friendship, but that's not what's happened with us, and that's okay. I accept him for who and what he is. Don't you?"

"He's _human_ , a living, breathing man, with normal needs and emotions. A lifetime of being told that he's defective, not capable of feeling things means that he's wary. Of course he is! But I also know that being loved is the only thing that will ground him, keep him safe. He's in a dangerous place right now, alone in his head.  And I am afraid for him…because I do love him. I always have, and I always will."

John just might be getting the tiniest bit of satisfaction out of saying, "He's not going with you, so that feeling isn't mutual." By the look he gets from Victor, he knows the barb has hit home. "You have to admit that the evidence is inconclusive as to what he wants _now_."

Victor suddenly walks into the bedroom and starts stripping the sheets off. John follows him and stands at the doorway, watching him put the dirty bed linen into the laundry basket. Then he steps aside as Victor pushes past him to the side of the living room and starts stuffing his things into his bag.  When he raises his eyes back up at John, they are wet with unshed tears.  Shaking his head, Victor whispers, "He broke my heart. Back then, and again last night. This time, he knew exactly what he was doing, and I wasn't the one who taught him that."

Something shifts in John's mind. Seeing someone like Victor in such distress isn't at all what he'd expected to find. Suddenly, he feels guilty, as Victor's face crumples and his eyes well up with tears that spill over.  The big man whispers, "You don't get it, do you?  I love Sherlock enough that if you're the one he wants, then I can accept it, so long as you do something about it. As long as you make sure he's…" he shakes his head, lets out a ragged breath. "This isn't like him, John, and I'm not saying this because I want to hurt either of you. My mistake was not realising how badly he deals with certain things, and how good he is at hiding just that. I wasn't there for him when he needed me, because I couldn't read the signs. I hope to hell that you can, before it's too late."

Despite the spiky exterior he's been projecting to Victor, John isn't impervious to his distress.  He'd come in here expecting to hate this guy, to find fault at every turn.  But whatever his preconceived ideas had been, Victor isn't turning out to be the person he wants him to be. To start with, he's genuinely distressed. Whatever else might be going on, John can see that Victor does love Sherlock, and that it's ripping him up to realise that it isn't being returned.  He also sees that Victor is scared, worried about what Sherlock is going through at the moment.

It hits home. John's scared, too. He's been making excuses for Sherlock, trying to pretend that something awful isn't happening, but he can feel it in his bones, the same way that Victor seems to be feeling.  And that realisation untethers John's compassion. 

He tries to explain. "He's hurt you, hasn't he? This weekend, hooking up again? Maybe this is the first time you've really understood him. Sherlock's not interested in love; not now," John says quietly. "It's _sentiment_.  I didn't know him back then, so I can't comment on the whys and wherefores. And you don't know what's happened to him since you two broke up.  He doesn't talk about any of that time, says it's pointless. All I know is what is happening _now._  What I do know _now_ is that he thinks he's above all that, considers relationships a weakness. Logic, rational, scientific—he once called emotions the grit in the machine, told me he doesn't have _friends_ but that was just before he apologised and said I was his only friend _._ Lately, he's stopped bothering to apologise, just sticking with being a dick. So yeah, probably a part of what he projects is just because it's easier. Less risky."

Victor looks across the room, locking eyes with John. "That's his defence mechanism being slapped into place. It's what he does when he gets scared of what he's feeling. You know it, too, and you have to be able to see through that to find what's really distressing him, because something is tearing him apart."

Victor picks up his suit jacket and puts it on. "You can't keep pretending that there is nothing going on with him. He's in trouble, deep trouble. He needs you. You have to stop him from whatever the hell he is doing with Moriarty. It's going to kill him."

John rubs the back of his neck and gives an incredulous laugh. "You think I can do that? Nobody can stop him. He's obsessed with Moriarty; he's the only game in town for him. God knows what's going to happen when the guy gets put away for good after the trial. He's going to get so bored."

Now slipping the ends of his tie into a knot, Victor shakes his head. "He says Moriarty will walk free from court."

John stares at him. "After robbing the Crown Jewels, breaking into the Bank of England and springing the prison doors at Pentonville? I don't think so."

"Sherlock is convinced."

"Well I suppose if the guy keeps murdering the prosecution team, who knows?"

" _Please_ , John. Pull him back from the brink. He's going to do something mad; I just know it."

John shakes his head. "I can't do that. Nothing I could say would stop him."

"Don't underestimate yourself. Find a way to break through the walls he's putting up. He wouldn't let me, but I think he will if you can find it in you to be what he needs." 

The doorbell rings, cutting off anything that John might have said in reply.  Victor strides to the door and opens it.

The agent who had been in the second car, the one who had been watching the flat when John had arrived, is standing in the hallway. He announces calmly, "The car you ordered has been cancelled. I've been told to escort you to the Stock Exchange and to keep you in my sight until you are finished there. I will then accompany you on the helicopter flight to Biggin Hill and ensure you are on the flight. Are you ready to leave now?"

Victor stares at him for a long moment, and then turns back to John. "This means that whatever Sherlock has said to Mycroft has satisfied him. You and I know differently, John."  He picks up his bag and then hesitates. "Do me a favour, take out the trash and be sure to lock up when you leave." Victor holds his hand out, dangling the key. "Put the key through the letter box downstairs." There is a moment of hesitation and then he says quietly, "Please, I'm counting on you to get over whatever the hell is stopping you. Be the man he needs you to be. You _have_ to do the right thing." 

John takes the key, but does not speak. What the hell could he possibly say?

Victor hears the silence, and when his eyes meet John's they carry nothing but sadness.

"Goodbye, John."

 

 


	21. Smokescreen

When John reaches Baker Street just before ten o'clock, as he pulls his key from his pocket the door is shoved open to reveal Sherlock on his way out.  The taller man dodges past him in a swirl of a long coat and barely a sideways glance.

"Oi, where are you going?"

"Case… a seven, maybe even an eight," Sherlock barks as his raised hand conjures a taxi out of nowhere, giving John little choice but to jump in beside him or stay at home.

Now, after minutes of awkward silence and a total lack of any eye contact, John is beginning to regret his decision to come along. Finally, he asks, "You alright?"

"Fine."

The answer doesn't satisfy John, not in the slightest. But just how the hell is he supposed to crack through Sherlock's defences? He has no idea what to do with what Victor has told him. He'd spent the entire hour walking back to Baker Street from Vincent Square trying first to make sense of it, and then to ignore it, without success. He had needed the walk to try getting some things straight in his head; that, combined with his own dislike of rush-hour commuter traffic on the roads, buses and underground, had led him into Hyde Park. At every step, the view had been spoiled by what had been going on in his head. At one point, he'd had to sit down on one of the benches and put his head down in his hands, elbows propped on his knees.

Even after being faced with proof that Sherlock does, in fact, sometimes indulge in what he calls sentiment, John finds it very hard to comprehend Victor's view about their relationship. John is utterly confused and more than a little uncomfortable with what now feels like a burden of knowledge. If Sherlock really does love him in _that_ way but has never said or done a thing about it, the question has to be, _why not?_   The more he thinks about it, the more ridiculous it seems.

He doesn't doubt that Victor does love Sherlock; the man's pain was more than enough proof. But could that be because he has never really understood Sherlock? They had been so young, then—isn't uni both for studying and for making the sorts of mistakes that people are supposed to learn from in their early twenties? What, if any credence should John pay to Victor's belief that Sherlock loves him rather than Victor, or that he could love anyone at all now, for that matter? _Maybe it just hurts Victor less to think there has to be someone else, than to accept Sherlock doesn't want to be with him._ John almost nods. It makes more sense. _Nobody wants to be rejected but to come second place…_ Yet, a niggling doubt remains. Victor hadn't seemed vengeful when they'd spoken, just sad.

Unfortunately, the route march back to Baker Street had done nothing to solve the conundrum. Now sitting next to Sherlock in the back of the taxi, John wishes to God he had a delete button the way Sherlock has. He would happily consign his conversation with Victor to the same black hole that Sherlock had sent his knowledge of the solar system. But, the seeds of doubt have been planted, and John can't just pretend that nothing has happened.

As the taxi swings onto the elevated section of the A40, he tries again. "Not like you to disappear in the middle of a case."

"I solved that on Friday night."

"Lestrade thought differently. Came looking for you about Maddox's chambers."

"I know. We spoke and I told him what to look for, because he simply hadn't been able to put it together. _Boring._ "

Now that John's got him talking again, he's not going to give up. "Enjoy your dirty weekend?"

There is no reply.

Not willing to let it go, he prods. "You'd tell me if there was something wrong?"

"There isn't, apart from the fact that we're wasting time having this conversation."

It grates, this act of Sherlock's. He's behaving as if absolutely nothing of interest had happened on Friday night—that his subsequent disappearance is something best left unexplained.

John is annoyed enough to snap back, "I'm not sure you would tell me anything these days. I used to think I knew you, but now you seem to be making a habit of keeping me in the dark about everything until I get peeved. Well, I'm annoyed enough now to wonder why I'm sitting here, given you haven't bothered to tell me anything about where we're going."

A wrinkle appears between Sherlock's brows. "You heard the address as well as the cab driver did. If you didn't, then you should get your hearing tested."

"Seventy-three Inverneill Road, W13. Yes, I heard that. What I didn't hear from you is _why_."

As the cab heads west towards the suburbs of Ealing Broadway. Sherlock sniffs. "Very well. In a nutshell—Drearcliff House. A semi-detached property, run by someone preying on illegal construction workers who need a place to stay with a landlord willing to turn a blind eye. One murder victim, with the body burned in a nearby park. Police dog has tracked back the scent to Drearcliff House; ten suspects, all illegals. No one knows who the murdered man is. No paperwork, no fingerprints and no one is talking. All being held at the station on Uxbridge Road. It's been assigned to Dimmock's MIT; he's not on Mycroft's _cease and desist_ list. Or even if he is, I don't care what damage might or might not be done to his career prospects by bringing me in on this."

"That's a bit not good."

Sherlock shrugs, his eyes still on his phone. "Don't be judgmental. None of the suspects would appear to speak English. The officers aren't sure what language they do speak because so far, they haven't said a single word. The Major Investigation Team has asked for help from the Yard but no one's available for another couple of hours. So, Dimmock's request is for a translator; he thought I might know someone. Happens I do, in a manner of speaking; _I_ can manage a bit of Gujarati and speak Hindi and Urdu fluently."

"I don't."

That makes Sherlock look up from his phone and scowl at John. "Then what use are you?"

This is so blatantly provocative that John seethes, and he flexes his left hand into a fist and out of it again, as he thinks it through. _If Sherlock wants to avoid a conversation about what happened this weekend, isn't this exactly how he would do it?_ Make John so annoyed that he'd ask to be let out of the taxi at the nearest tube station to make his own way back to Baker Street? "Not falling for it. You're not going to get rid of me so easily. If nothing else, I'm going to do my very best to stop you from being a dickhead." He shrugs somewhat philosophically. "Seems to be my default role these days."

Sherlock doesn't reply but returns to his phone, swiping several times and then turning the screen sideways to read something.

John decides that this is just Sherlock being Sherlock—no different from the man's usual level of obnoxiousness. There does not appear to be anything unusual about his behaviour, nothing new that suggests this past weekend was anything out of the ordinary. While being grateful that at least this case does not seem to be any way linked to Moriarty, it is making John wonder whether Victor's worries truly were just a figment of the man's own imagination and an attempt to remedy a wounded pride. Did the man need Sherlock to be in trouble somehow to justify the fact that he'd not reacted in the way that Victor had wanted him to behave? 

It's all very confusing, making John doubt his initial concern. Is he missing something here? Or is this just the way Sherlock is? Has John allowed first Mycroft and then Victor's worries to infect his own thinking? What is clear is that Sherlock is behaving towards him in a way that is about as far removed as possible from the idea of _loving_ him in any sense—especially in the way that Victor had meant. It must have made more sense to the poor man than Sherlock being entirely incapable of love. To admit that would have invalidated their original relationship, the memories of which Victor seemed to be clinging onto like a man holding onto a life-raft.

It didn't seem quite as implausible that Sherlock would fancy a bit of sex. _He's a functioning male, isn't he?_ John wondered. The idea that any sentiment had been involved was harder to believe, given the way Sherlock is acting now.

They don't speak again until the taxi stops at the station on Uxbridge Road. Sherlock sweeps out of the cab without a backward glance, leaving John to mutter to himself, "Oh and being the berk's wallet, too. Don't forget that little item on the job description."

Inside the 1960s office block that is Ealing's police station, John sees all the signs of a neighbourhood station that has been let go to seed. It must be one of the seven stations identified by the Met as due for closure. Even the duty sergeant on the desk behind a glass window looks like he is due for imminent retirement.

As there is no sign of a Consulting Detective anywhere to be seen, John approaches. "I'm Doctor Watson, supposed to be with Sherlock Holmes." 

The officer looks blank, so John adds "…The translator? He just got here."

This time the man nods and says, "Didn't say anything about needing a doctor. I'll have to check with the MIT detective. Just take a seat." He points to the wooden bench along the wall of the reception area. 

Holding onto his temper, John goes to the bench which is occupied by several South Asian men and one woman in a sari, who scoots along the wooden seat to make room for him.  He's tired enough to want to sit, but not in a row of people who could be potential suspects. God knows if Sherlock's plan is to humiliate him even further by keeping him out here. In any case, he's not yet ready to give up. Victor's words about defence mechanisms are still swirling around in his head when a uniformed WPC officer walks up to him. "Doctor Watson, I presume?"

"Yeah." John gets to his feet.

"DI Dimmock says you're to come with me. He needs your help keeping the translator under control." 

John rolls his eyes. Another item on the job description: _damage control_.  "Lead on," he says wearily.

She swipes him through the electronic locks on three sets of doors and then into a badly lit corridor. At the far end, Sherlock is pacing.

As John gets closer, Sherlock frowns. "Finally! I can get back to work. As you don't speak Gujarati, I have no idea what he thinks you can bring to this little party." He reaches for the door just as it opens, and Dimmock emerges.

He shuts the door behind him and glares at Sherlock, before smiling a greeting at John. "Doctor Watson. Glad you're here. I'm trying to interview one of the suspects, but instead of translating, Mister Holmes here seems to be conducting the interview himself without me. Any ideas?"

"Apart from taping up his mouth? No." That gets him an outraged look from Sherlock straight out of his diva playbook, and a barely supressed giggle from the WPC behind them.

Dimmock sniffs. "Officer, can you ask if any of the people waiting in reception speak both Gujarati and English? If they don't, maybe you have a list of duty solicitors who do. They might get here quicker than the Yard translator. In the meantime, can you make sure that the other nine suspects are being kept separated? Wouldn't want them to be able to compare notes or agree on a common line."

Sherlock has resumed pacing, but turns to wave his hands in exasperation. "Stop wasting time. I can solve this in minutes if you will just leave me to it."

"Not happening, Mister Holmes. I can't be sure you are following proper procedure and I can't allow the case to be thrown out of court because of something you do or say."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, and resumes his now quite frantic pacing, and John decides it's time to intervene. He marches down to where Sherlock is, stepping in front of him to stop his forward momentum. He leans in and says very quietly. "Remember me? I'm the one who's here to stop you being an idiot. Get down off your high horse. If you want to get in on the case, the choice is play by his rules or don't play at all. Your call, Sherlock."

The Consulting Detective rolls his eyes. "Very well. I will translate, even though it will slow everything down."

Dimmock's smile is a little strained. "It's going to be recorded, so when the translator gets here, the first thing I'm going to do is check that you did it correctly."

Rather petulantly, Sherlock answers, "I am thoroughly familiar with standard interview techniques."

"I'm sure you are. But you still aren't authorised to conduct one, so we do this my way."

What ensues is a battle of wills, with Sherlock doing consecutive translations but always putting in his own points, many of which Dimmock just ignores. John stays standing in the background, his eyes on Sherlock as he paces around behind Dimmock's chair. Occasionally, he clears his throat pointedly when Sherlock oversteps the mark, getting an impatient eye roll in reply.

What emerges—very slowly—is the story of Jagdish, an illegal immigrant from Surat, a seaport in the Indian province of Gujarat.  Almost monosyllabic yes or no answers that even John begins to recognise because they are repeated so often flesh out the details. Four months ago traffickers had dumped Jagdish on the North Circular and given him a piece of paper with the Inverneill address on it. Because he couldn't read English, it had taken him almost three days before he trusted anyone to direct him to the right place. Jagdish explains that each of the ten suspects who had been taken by the police from the tumbledown garage behind the house on Inverneill Road have families back in India who had sold land and taken on thousands of pounds of debt to traffickers smuggling them in the back of a lorry. Once in England, they are to work and give the proceeds back to the traffickers to pay off their debts.   

Jagdish has no idea who the murdered person is, nor why he had been burned beyond recognition in a bonfire in the park at the end of the road.  He also cannot explain why a sniffer dog led the police from the park to Number Seventy-three. He says the other men in the garage are in the same position as he is. They have no documentation—the traffickers had made them burn theirs—and have been trying to earn money on illegal construction work in West London. Jagdish says he is ashamed of what has happened; he'd come expecting a good job but the casual labour has dried up. "Last month, only nine days' work." He is in debt to the landlord, because he is being charged £700 a month rent for just a mattress in the garage- and a blind eye to the immigration authorities.  The others, he says, are in just as difficult a situation.

Dimmock turns to Sherlock. "Ask him why he doesn't go to the authorities and seek voluntary repatriation. They'd send him back home free of charge."

Sherlock snorts. "It takes an average of eighteen months for the Border Agency to process an undocumented illegal immigrant before transport home, during which time they are incarcerated and not earning. If he's not earning, the traffickers will threaten his family for unpaid debts. If he does eventually get repatriated, he will be murdered for those unpaid debts. Not an option. Get real, Dimmock." He doesn't bother to translate the question.

Dimmock glances at John and purses his lips. Before he can ask another question, though, Sherlock erupts in a torrent of Gujarati and the suspect's face flushes with anger.  He responds with more words than all of his previous answers combined.

Dimmock slaps the table. "What did you just say to him?"

Sherlock is smirking. "I asked him whether he liked the fact that his landlord is ripping them off. He said it is the worst thing of all. The man is a legal resident and has paid his mortgage off on the property by extorting money from people like him. He says he expects to be mistreated by the British, but this cruelty by his own people is wrong and very shameful."

Sherlock is pacing again, hands steepled under his chin, in deduction mode.

John watches him, wondering what he is thinking. He asks, "Could the murdered man be one of the landlord's family? Is that why the dogs led them back to the house from the park?"

"No, don't be absurd. They are at the mercy of their traffickers. If the landlord suspected one of them, he'd just report the man to the police and shove the rest of these people off site for a few days when the police came to investigate." Sherlock stops and stares at the wall, gaze fixed.

Dimmock isn't so dismissive. "The body was burned beyond recognition. Maybe Doctor Watson is right; we should interview the landlord. He's also been arrested, we've got him at the very least for illegal subletting of property. If he's not related to the victim, perhaps he's the murderer, and these illegals are just suspects who he's bullied into keeping quiet."

Sherlock shakes his head. "Be quiet. You're distracting me with your stupidity."

"Remember this is being recorded," John reminds Sherlock.

oOoOoOoOo

Sherlock's restlessness doesn't ease during the next half an hour; John's little reminder has annoyed him almost as much as Dimmock's dimness. Neither of them has understood what is evident from Jagdish's statement: he and the other men are not particularly afraid of the landlord, just disgusted at the man's greed and willingness to exploit their situation. Jagdish clearly feels at the end of his tether, distraught at how badly wrong this whole exercise has gone. Enticed with a promise of a better life, good wages and the ability not only to pay off the debts needed to get to England, but to be able to then bring in their families in to enjoy this paradise, these illegals are now aware of what a dead-end they have arrived in, instead. Some ideas are starting to take shape in Sherlock's mind, but he's not quite worked it out.

Dimmock asks Sherlock whether they should interview the next suspect, Sherlock snaps, "Pointless; it will just be the same story."

John looks at Jagdish who is keeping his eyes down on the table in front of him. "Poor buggers. They'd do anything to escape such a nightmare." 

" _OH_!" Sherlock comes to a sudden halt, announcing: "Brilliant, John. We need a dog."

"What?" John's face betrays he hasn't a clue what Sherlock wants, but there is more there, too—a bit of anger. He's been touchy lately about cases, and this is no exception. _Good_. It's all part of the plan to get him to distance himself and make it harder for Moriarty to take action before he's ready.  And right now, anything that distracts John from what happened on the weekend is to be welcomed with open arms. At least this case doesn't relate to the trial, and Sherlock can pursue it without having to worry about how it might or might not affect his bigger plans.

In a dismissive tone underscored with irritation, Sherlock glares at John and then says to Dimmock, "Get the police K9 unit that tracked the scent to the house. We have work to do!" He turns towards the door and bangs on it twice.

Dimmock is halfway out of his chair when the door is opened by the WPC. He shouts, "Wait! Where are you going? We have nine more suspects to interview!"

"No need for any of that. The _dog_ will tell us what we need to know. All you have to do is bring the dog and this suspect—and an item of clothing from each of the other suspects—back to the garage."

In a swirl of coat, Sherlock bolts from the room, and John follows. He can hear Dimmock in the background saying "…this interview was terminated at 14.26…" before the door swings shut behind them.

A quick swipe of Google Maps shows Sherlock that Inverneill Road is only five blocks away from the police station. He strides off with John in tow, the latter struggling to keep pace. Both get there before Dimmock and the K9 unit arrive. Talking his way past the community support officer on site tasked with keeping the nosy neighbours away, he and John soon stand in the centre of the garage, looking at the sad debris of an illegal immigrant's life.

"What are we looking for?"

"Evidence."

John rolls his eyes. "I get that much, you berk. What sort of evidence? Evidence of what?"

Sherlock smirks. "Use your head, John. Or in this case, your nose. What can a dog tell us that the eye cannot see?"

"Scent?"

"Not just any scent. _Particular_ scent, belonging to each of the men who squatted here. And anyone else unaccounted for."

He watches John work that through his tired brain. "You think the murder victim is one of them?"

Sherlock gives him one of _those_ smiles, the one that he uses when he is being so much more cleverer than anyone else. "Not exactly."  He knows this gets right up John's nose, which is why he does it now with malice of forethought.

The police van arrives with Dimmock and the suspect who is led into the back garden. Sherlock orders the constable to whom Jagdish is hand-cuffed to stay outside of the garage. When the dog arrives, Sherlock explains to the handler what he wants. "It's a reverse search. Let the dog smell the suspect and then find where he slept and his things in the garage."

Dimmock is scratching his head, confused. "Wait, wait a minute. Do you think this is where the murder took place? Should I get the forensic people out here?"

Sherlock stops in his tracks, turning to look in amazement at the DI. _Can he really not see what is about to happen? Perhaps not._ The look on John's face is equally confused, making Sherlock look to the sky. "No. We don't want a load of forensic officers cluttering up the place and making the scents even harder for the poor dog. Just stand clear."

The handler takes the Alsatian over to Jagdish, who looks frightened and cringes as the dog sniffs at the man's shoes. Sherlock says something in Gujarati and the man gives a nervous laugh. John and Dimmock exchange glances, but the DI keeps quiet for once, and Sherlock is grateful for small mercies. He needs a chance to build a rapport with Jagdish, and interference is not welcome.

He follows the dog into the garage, with Dimmock and John behind him. There are four bunks and some single mattresses on the floor. The men watch as the handler lets the Alsatian off the lead. "Find it!" he commands, and the dog starts a frantic search, nosing the bedding and the clothes. It doesn't take him a minute before he stops at the second bunk bed, puts his paws on the lower mattress and barks. 

"One down, nine to go." Sherlock smiles. He says to the handler. "Now do the same for each of the items of clothing from the other suspects."

It takes a while, but as the dog locates the sleeping place of each of the men, he announces his success with a bark and is rewarded by a treat. When the tenth man's scent is located on the top of the fourth bunk, Sherlock's smile is broader. 

He turns to Dimmock and John, and then realises that they still look confused. "Dear God, are you both so blind as you will not see?"

John snaps, "A little less showmanship, and a little more explanation, Sherlock."

"The clue we are looking for is where the dog _didn't_ bark." Sherlock walks over to the one single mattress that had not yet been identified. He kneels and examines the tatty, stained item carefully, feeling it with his fingers, using his pocket magnifier to look at something up close and then putting his nose onto the bedding and taking a big sniff.  When he gets up, he can't resist a smirk. "Thought so; we are missing someone who should be here, the man who slept here but was not arrested with the others."

"The murder victim?" Dimmock is trying to follow Sherlock's logic, but then adds, "So, the landlord murdered one of the illegals here, after all?!"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Highly unlikely. To avoid wasting yet more police time, I want the dog to have a good sniff of this mattress and then try to find the scent of the man who slept here.  We should follow him, because I think you may be surprised where he leads you." He glances at the DI, and adds, "You'll want to bring the suspect, too; he'll be needed for identification purposes."

The dog handler has been listening, and when he gets the nod from Dimmock, he sends the dog to the mattress, and then gives the command: "Find him!"  The police dog casts about on the floor of the garage and then heads for the door. The extending lead keeps the handler in contact as they all follow down the driveway and out to the pavement. Instead of turning right to head towards the park where the burned body was found, the dog casts about, sniffing in a circle, then heads off in the opposite direction. 

Two intersections, a bit of back-tracking to catch a scent again before returning to the trail, the dog and its handler are followed by a parade that includes the DI,  the suspect handcuffed to a constable, plus Sherlock and John, all of whom end up on the steps of the Ealing Shri Kanaga Mandir.

The Hindu temple is only half full of worshipers, but their further progress is stopped just inside the main doors. Dimmock insists on waiting until the head priest can be summoned and their situation explained. "I'm not going to send a dog in there without permission; community relations mean we have to be sensitive to the needs of religious establishments."

Sherlock's glare is not enough to get him to shift, so he paces, worried that with every passing moment, the eleventh man might well be escaping.  At his third circuit of the reception area, Sherlock turns to John and says quietly so no one else can hear, "Head for the backdoor of the temple; keep an eye out for anyone leaving in a hurry." 

This serves two purposes for Sherlock—it gives John something meaningful to do, which seems to be important these days—and secondly, it removes him from the room, which stops him from interfering when Sherlock crosses the line.

Which he proceeds to do once John is barely out of the door. Sherlock goes over to the dog, leans down and unclips the lead. In a flash, the Alsatian charges through the open doors into the main area of the temple, heads straight across it and disappears into another set on the opposite side of the room.  The handler is calling out to him, shouting "Barney, _STOP_!" but it's too late and the dog probably can't hear him over the shouts and protests of the people worshiping in the temple.

"Oops," Sherlock gives an insincere smile when Dimmock sends him an angry look.  He bends and takes off his shoes and then follows the path that the dog took, leaving the others to do the same as barking erupts from the place where the dog had entered. Sherlock has a head start and gets there first, to see a scene where the animal has cornered a young man, who has jumped onto a table to get away from the canine.  He takes one look at Sherlock and bolts across several tables and then jumps to the floor heading for the back door. It's opened just before he gets there, and John appears blocking the exit, arms crossed, an immoveable object. "Don't even think about it," he warns.

It all ends in a great uproar; the priest is shouting at them to leave immediately, Dimmock is trying to placate him while Sherlock gets the constable to handcuff this new suspect to Jagdish.  The dog keeps barking until the handler yells at him to be quiet.  It is all too loud, too stupid and Sherlock can't hold it in anymore. He leaps onto a table and shouts at the top of his lungs, _"SHUT UP! ALL OF YOU JUST BE QUIET!"_

Startled into momentary silence, the others in the room stare at Sherlock, towering over them.

"Dimmock. This is the eleventh man, an illegal like the other ten. He needs to be taken into custody."

"Are you saying he is the murderer?"

"Not at all. He's the one who is supposed to be dead."

"What?!"

Both Dimmock and John come out with the same question at exactly the same time, and it makes Sherlock smirk. _This… this is exactly what I needed!_ Not a sex-a-thon with an ex, just some good, old fashioned case work. Moriarty's deprived him of his fun for far too long.

Before anyone can step in with more questions, he asks one of his own to Jagdish in Gujerati, and the man sighs before giving the little head waggle that looks to a English person like he's saying no, but in fact is the Indian way of agreeing. Ruefully, the man says, "આ અનુ છે (Ā anu chē)."

 

Sherlock translates for the others. "This is Anu, whose last name is Patel, if I am not mistaken. As are all of the other ten suspects in custody, as well as the landlord.  The landlord was told that Anu died as a result of an accident on a construction site and that the others cremated him in the park, because they wanted to give him a proper funeral."

He unleashes a deductive stream: "Take eleven illegal immigrants who want to escape a life enthralled to the traffickers, all want to free their families back home from crippling debts, and who are ashamed of being unable to be the saviours that their loved ones want them to be. Their answer was to club together, to make a pact. The agreement was that one at a time, each of them would find a body to take their place, and escape the same way. They drew lots, and the winner was Anu, who is able to disappear because he is now officially dead. Dead people can't pay the landlord back rent and the traffickers would struggle to get the money off the family back in Pakistan as they have now lost their wage earner, who has been reported as dead. These men are not guilty of murder.  You can charge them under common law for the offence of preventing the lawful and decent burial of a dead body."

Dimmock is puzzled. "Where would they get bodies? Are you saying that the temple gave them a body to burn?" He stares at the priest, as if daring him to confirm or deny the allegation.

The priest is offended. "That is ridiculous," he blusters. "We dispense charity meals, blankets and clothing to the illegals, some of whom end up on the streets, homeless, jobless, often addicted to drink or drugs. When these people die, there is no one to claim the bodies, give them a decent funeral. The temple does what it can, calling on the services of an Asian cremation service in Acton. It is a drain on our funds," he explains. "And there are many who question our choice. These are men with no name, no papers, no family to conduct the rites—we don't know the sect or caste of the victim, so no idea how to conduct the funeral. The rest of the temple's members want nothing to do with them." 

"This is the Asian Funeral Service." Sherlock hops down from the table and holds out his phone with a website open, showing it to Dimmock. "They do a cheap cremation; _too_ cheap. I expect they'd be willing to offload a few bodies for a small fee. Given what these men have been paying in rent for that hovel, they could manage to purchase one. All they had to do is wait for the temple to take possession of an unclaimed body, knowing that it would be sent to the funeral home. They could then approach the staff there and offer them money. The body would be handed over to be dealt with in a way that ensured it couldn't be recognised: burning."

John's eyes flit to Anu and then back to Sherlock. "So why is he here? Why didn't he just head for the hills now that he's officially dead?"

The priest and the handcuffed man exchange a look. Anu grimaces but nods, so the priest explains, "Anu has been a regular worshiper here. He came here to perform a last Pooja, an act of worship, and to ask me to inform his family. He did not want them to hear about it from the traffickers." 

Dimmock is shaking his head. "So, no one's been murdered. Apart from charging the landlord and handing over these men to the Border Agency, there's nothing left to do."

"Case solved, Detective Inspector." Sherlock can't resist the victorious tone; it has been brilliant to put his mind to work again on something other than Moriarty. A cerebral exercise without a personal element; no threats to John's life, no one wrapped in semtex, nothing that involved a particular Irishman. Oh, how he wishes life could be that simple right now.

"Uh, thanks, Mister Holmes."

"John, let's go. I fancy a bit of something to eat. There is a very good curry place about four streets from here."


	22. Epilogue

As he and John head away from the Ealing police station toward the restaurant, Sherlock adjusts his stride marginally so that the two of them can walk side-by-side. John has the military to thank for being able to keep up despite their height differences, so long as Sherlock takes ten centimetres off his stride. Right now, he is in too good a mood and cannot be bothered to continue with his current attempts to annoy John by taking an even bigger stride than he normally does.

There are plenty of free tables, and as he slides into the booth, Sherlock grabs the menu and starts reading. He's absolutely ravenous. All that exercise in the bedroom must have burned a lot of calories and dashing after a police dog had pushed his adrenaline levels, too, burning through whatever reserves remained. He needs to refuel.

Glancing quickly at his companion before continuing to scan the menu, he breathes a sigh of relief. He hasn't seen John in this good a mood in weeks—months, if truth be told. And he has to agree with the reason: this case has been a blast. One supposed homicide, ten suspects, all guilty—just not of murder.  A dead man who had been found to be anything but dead, a murder victim who turned out to have been already deceased when he was forced to play the part. Sherlock has had fun putting it all together, seeing beyond the obvious, leaving poor Dimmock behind in his cloud of confusion. _The man makes Lestrade look like a bloody genius in comparison._ He's relished the sheer delight of a real case that doesn't involve Moriarty, didn't come from Elizabeth ffoukes, and isn't part of the Lars Sigurson preparation work.

Just for a moment there was unexpected, unscheduled, unadulterated _fun._ It's the best day he's had in months. Moriarty, Moran, Lars, Mycroft, Elizabeth—none of them got a moment's look-in.  And the best thing of all? John has been able to be the man that Sherlock loves him to be: his conductor of light, a colleague on a case, a friend in arms. _Exhilarating_. Better than any drug at dispelling the gloom and dread that he's been living with ever since that bloody pool. _Better than Victor_.

 

oOoOoOoOo

It is sometime after they've demolished the tandoori starter platter for two that John starts to come down from his high.  Between bites of chicken, Sherlock has spent the time regaling him with translations of the Gujarati that Jagdish and Anu had been aiming at the police, the landlord and that Alsatian, and his animated retelling has left John in stitches.

God, it's been marvellous to work on something that doesn't carry the ponderous weight of Moriarty attached to it. If he'd been worried when he'd nearly collided with Sherlock on the doorstep of 221b about whether his reunion with Victor might have been damaging, this afternoon seems to prove all of that to be wrong.  The man sitting across from him is positively glowing with energy and is hungry enough to have had slightly more than his fair share of the starters.

John leans back on the plush velour booth's seat and raises the last of his pint of Kingfisher lager to his lips. He uses it as a cover to steal a long look at Sherlock, to _really_ look.  Whatever heartbreak Victor might have gone through over the past weekend, it seems to have little or no outward effect at all on Sherlock. Well, at least not in a negative way. If anything, the man seems re-energised and having fun.

 _Fun._ Yes, that's exactly what has been missing from their interactions over the past months. The contrast could not be starker between the Sherlock who is currently licking the spicy tandoori paste off his fingers after consuming the last of the king prawns and the uptight, monosyllabic prick who had been so dismissive of John on Friday night. This Sherlock has certainly re-gained his sense of humour. It is something of a shock for John to realise that this is what he's been missing the most since they returned from Dartmoor. There are times when Sherlock is unintentionally funny, mostly because he's never quite sure what is going on in other people's minds, because his works so differently. When John had first met him, he'd thought him slightly mad, but in a rather charming way.

Ever since then, he's also learned that Sherlock has a rather impish sense of humour. The man likes causing trouble, rocking the boat, getting away with things for which others would get yelled at—such as letting that Alsatian loose in the temple. The total chaos that had ensued with worshippers, priests, police and suspects scampering every which way is going to give John something fun to write about in his blog, that's for sure. And the fact that it had solved the murder in such a decisive way is going to make for a good story—one with even a positive ending, since there was no murder to start with. Well, in this case 'positive' was a relative term. The eleven illegals might be thinking differently.

Putting his empty glass down, John catches the eye of the waiter and gestures for another. He fixes his gaze at Sherlock's glass of lassi and raises his eyebrows in a wordless question. Sherlock shakes his head.

His conscience slightly pricked by the thought that the Gujarati men are still in custody, John asks, "What's going to happen to Jagdish and the others?"

Sherlock shrugs. "It is a frustrating truth that the Border Agency is decrepitly slow in processing illegal immigrants who have no documentation. And that, of course, is exactly why the traffickers destroy their papers. Without being able to prove their identity, the process of repatriation can take months."

"Seems a shame. They're more victims in this than criminals."

"I agree. One of the things I was explaining to Jagdish while Dimmock was trying to apologise to the temple priest is that he should think about volunteering to turn evidence over to the police about the traffickers.  If he can trade information for a speedier review of his case, he might be able to get back to Surat before the traffickers take it out on his family." Sherlock looks thoughtful. "Another alternative is to seek asylum, if he can prove that they would try to kill him if he returns with the money unpaid. But my best suggestion is that they try to convince the landlord to return their rent to them so they can use the money to pay off the traffickers while they are in custody awaiting deportation. It's worth a try."

For a moment, John is confused. "Why would the landlord agree to that?"

"If the eleven of them were to deny that he'd taken money from them in exchange for the squat in the garage, he might escape a hefty fine imposed by the Council. If he's going to lose money, he might as well give it to them in exchange for their silence. Being a Patel must count for something." A mischievous smile has spread on Sherlock's features.

"About that… How is it even remotely possible that all eleven of the illegals are Patels? Surely they're lying."

Sherlock shakes his head. "There are over eight million Patels in India, and a half million of them outside of India. There are over a hundred and fifty thousand Patels in the UK. Nearly one in ten of all South Asian Indians in the US have the surname of Patel; in the UK it's one in every fourteen. Compare that with Smith, the most common English name which is one in eighty-eight people." He shrugs. "It's a huge clan." 

John gets the giggles.

"What?"

He can't stop laughing.

"What's so funny?"

"You… You delete the solar system but can find room in that Mind Palace of yours for trivia relating to the statistical frequency of different surnames."

Sherlock's smile broadens. "Well, it's useful when solving murders. Whether the sun revolves around the earth or vice-versa wouldn't have been even remotely relevant to this case—or any other I can think of."

They both end up chuckling. John's conversation with Victor this morning, his weekend-long worries about that reunion—all of it now seems so very remote and totally irrelevant. Sherlock's ex is probably about to land in California, never to be seen again. _Good bye and good riddance_ is all John can think.

Their main courses arrive: lamb rogan gosht for John and Goan fish curry for Sherlock. John's sides are pilau rice and a naan; Sherlock has ordered plain basmati rice and lime pickle to go with his curry. It rates three chillies on the menu, whereas John's lamb only gets one. That Sherlock likes lime pickle always gets John. How someone who suffers from sensory processing disorder can put something so sour into his mouth that it makes John's saliva glands stream in sympathy at just the smell—well, that's Sherlock in a nut-shell. _Contrary to expectations._

oOoOoOoOo

At some point just before he's finished picking the last morsel off the bones of his pomfret, Sherlock has one of those moments when time seems to stand still, motion ceases and thoughts come together in a way that he had not anticipated.

 _The end is coming_.

The skeletal remains on his plate suddenly appear prophetic. The bare bones of all those worries that he's been shoving aside are starting to re-emerge from where they've been interred deep in the subsoil of his consciousness. Seeping out from under the floorboards of his Mind Palace, the decaying stink of Moriarty is starting to reach his nostrils. The Mind Palace annexe in which he's been plotting the Irishman's demise is built over a swamp of foulness, a quagmire of awful aromas that are, once again, taking form like shadows gathering for the approach of darkness.

Any respite he seeks from that threat is fleeting and fickle, and he should not allow himself to forget that. Today's case, with John, has been nothing but a castle built on sand, a swan song before a long night.

Looking at his last bite of food, Sherlock is suddenly repulsed. He puts the fork down quietly on his plate and aligns the knife alongside to signal to the waiter that he is done.  He won't meet John's eye, but a casual glance at his friend's plate shows him that the last scrap of naan bread is in a left hand, mopping up the remnants of rogan gosht sauce.

 _Keep it together,_ Sherlock tells himself. He has to maintain his façade; for the past day he has deflected John's concerns, using the case to distract both of them from not just the events of this weekend, but of the threat that is still heading in their direction. He can do this, if he maintains the right focus.

John restarts time by announcing, "Need to go the loo; I'll ask for the bill on the way."

As soon as the door marked with the silhouette of a Victorian male closes behind John, Sherlock lets the barely there smile drop from his face. Looking at his watch, he realises that Victor must be nearly home by now.

What happened this weekend is something that he will never forget.  He had lost himself in Victor's embrace, indulging his appetite for sex while hiding from the truth—that he had once dared to love Victor. Yet, that simple truth is something he would not—could not—admit out loud, not to Victor or to himself. In his weakness, he'd used Victor, and that notion disgusts him. Worse: he'd lied and said that he'd never loved him in the first place. Even though the lie will protect Victor from Moriarty, and from Mycroft, too, it’s still a lie, and Victor does deserve better.

His love for Victor had been the very _opposite_ of lacking: he'd loved too much. To protect Victor, he's told him the same sort of lies as he has been saying to John. As far as others are concerned, sentiment, love and sexual relationships are all something he despises. _Except when I fall prey to them like a common idiot._

At least there is truth in his statement to Victor that he simply isn't able to be the man that Victor wants him to be. _Not then, not now_. He cannot admit to John that he is disappointingly ordinary in this one respect: he can love, want, need to be intimate with another human being.  If nothing else existed, if things were different… these parts of himself he would lay at John's feet in a silent offering, even knowing that they would not, could not be returned in the way that Sherlock wants.

Perhaps the harsh lesson in reality Victor has delivered is necessary. If Sherlock isn't very, very careful, John is going to end up dead—the victim of a love that Moriarty has the eyes to see where John cannot.  It is a love that is unrequited yet lethal. _The worst of all possible outcomes._ Sherlock knows he must choose survival over a flimsy fantasy. He will never find the kind of loving relationship that Victor had wanted. It certainly won't happen now, and it will never be with John. Sherlock's chosen path means that people who care about him are put at risk.  Being with Victor had shown him that he has to push John aside, protect him from becoming the unintentional casualty in his fight-to-the-death with Moriarty.

As John reappears and stops at the till to ask for the bill, Sherlock quickly plasters his face with the sort of casual expression he's been showing over the meal. The last thing he needs right now is any prying by John into his personal history with Victor Trevor. Whatever Victor might have said to John, he's not raised the subject yet, nor shown any inclination to do so.  While Sherlock might be curious to know what was said between the two men, there is no power on earth that could make him raise the topic. Things shaken loose in his memory are still rattling about, and it will take some time before the physical memory of Victor fades and stops feeling like an excoriation that smarts at the slightest touch.

Maybe he will get away with it. Perhaps John thinks of Victor a bit like one of his own interminable string of ex-girlfriends whom he'd dated for a while and then stopped doing so, usually because they weren't willing to share him with his flatmate who routinely interferes with overnight stays and whose work takes priority over their needs. _Jealousy takes many forms_. Should the topic ever come up, he decides that he will deny that the kiss on the dance floor had been anything other than Victor's mistaken assumption that he cared one way or the other about something they'd ended thirteen years ago. He'll just shrug and say, "He's someone I used to know."

A revelation arrives, plain and overwhelming. He is truly alone, now.

Victor will be filed away in the Palace as his "ex"—what an odd term that is. The letters e and x together are supposed to be simply a prefix attached to other words, to imply that what was once a relationship is no longer so, a sort of shorthand for the word "former". A former friend, a former lover. Things that once were but are no longer so, outgrown, discarded, the folly of youth.

As the bill is delivered to their table, complete with two statutory hard mint candies to deal with any consequences of curry on their breath, Sherlock suddenly realises that there is a time coming when he is going to have to think of John in exactly the same way: an ex of his—a former flatmate, former colleague, former friend, a wished-he'd-been-but-never-was anything more. 

The thought makes his stomach twist in anguish. Without a word, he gets up and heads off to the loo, knowing that John will think he is leaving him to pay the bill. Once in the confines of a stall, Sherlock takes a shaky breath, leans over the toilet bowl and vomits. The pleasures of his meal—of the entire day—are lost as the reality of his situation is taking over. _The truce ends_. He has to get back to alienating John, returning to the plan. Moriarty's trial is only weeks away, so he has to up the ante from being obnoxious to acting downright beastly if he is to achieve a parting of ways.

Whatever is coming after the trial, after the Sigurson plan, Sherlock knows that his and John's relationship will be forever altered by it. His plan means that John has to become the man he had once loved from a distance, but never had the courage to do anything about. _Victor was right about that, at least_. Sherlock has to become brave and heartless enough to do this thing, so John has a chance to live a normal life. _Alone protects me… and anyone else that I am foolish enough to love._

 _Sentiment._ To keep John alive, he will find the strength to do it. 

He rinses his mouth in the basin, washes his hands and then looks in the mirror, setting his expression in a cold, arrogant style, becoming Lars Sigurson, who has no feelings about anyone or anything except the mission to destroy Moriarty and his network.  He knows he will have to change the way he looks, so no one can suspect that a dead man didn't die.  He turns his chin and imagines himself blond, with a goatee beard. 

An ex-Sherlock, that's what he will have to become. The prospect is daunting, and for a brief moment the mirror reflects the pain that such a thing will involve.  An end to all that he is now as well as all the things that might have been, if only he had not been forced into this.  What is to come is a self-execution, an immolation of who and what he is, the Sherlock that had not once but twice dared to love, paid the price for it and learned that anyone who loves him back is a fool. So far, John has escaped and it is up to him to make sure he stays safe. 

 _Moriarty is right_. He has to burn his heart out if those he loves are to survive. 

Drying his hands under the forced hot air blower, the harsh sound ignites something new in him— _rage_.  This anger is what will drive him as Lars, infused into his very persona. There will be no room for anything else. Rage at having been forced into this position, rage at his own stupidity for exposing others to Moriarty. Rage will be his only emotion now, his driving force, his very reason for existence. 

Taking one last look in the mirror before he leaves the loo, Sherlock sees someone new in the reflection, and he smiles. 

_I'm ready._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and so this instalment in the Viclock "mini-series" comes to an end. For those of you who have fallen in love with Victor (*puts her own hand up high*) it isn't the last time you'll see or hear from him. I am working on "Exit- An Ex Files Special" which is a five plus one that will deal with the immediate post-Fall period, when you just know that Victor is going to want to say something to John.
> 
> This is also the place where I have to make a special "shout out" to the incomparable JBaillier, without whom this story would probably not exist in the form you have read it. Her unflagging enthusiasm for Extricate and The Ex got the story out of my "maybe one day" folder and into posting existence. Her beta role became that of a contributing editor, when the whoops and shouts online led me to say "well, how would YOU put it?!" So, a considerable number of lines are hers, and I am grateful for every single one of them. As I am grateful for her friendship.
> 
> I had been planning to use the last chapter (23) to give a sneak preview of The Exit, but now that it is published, I won't. Just go on and see what happens "after the fall." link text


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